/ 


THE  WIVERS/TV  OP 
NORTH  CAROLINA  '^ 
LIBRARY 


THE  WILVfER  COLLFr-r,^ 
^'\IL  ft  AR  NOVELS 
PRESENTED  BY 
R'CHARD  H.  WLMER,  jr. 


j^gjAEAGOU^^I 


\ 


/ 


CAMERON    HALL: 


A   STORY  OF  THE  CIVIL   WAR. 


BY 

M.    A.    C. 

AUTHOR  or  "  THE  UTTLE  EPISCOPALIAN,"  "  BESSIE  MELVnXB,"  ETC. 


War, 
Grim-visag'd,  fierce,  relentless  War 
Hath  ravag'd  all  our  land  !    Fields,  which  once 
Smiled  in  the  beauty  of  the  early  spring, 
Or  waved  with  golden  grain  in  harvest-time. 
Are  desolate  and  waste.    Homes,  which  once 
Kesounded  with  the  mirth  of  joy  and  song. 
Are  voiceless  now,  and  still.    Hearts,  which  once 
"Were  glad  and  bright  as  our  own  sunny  skies. 
Are  cold,  and  dark,  and  dead !    Land,  homes,  and  hearts 
Alike  are  desolate ! 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

18  67. 


Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  18G6,  by 

MARY  A.  CRUSE, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 

Northern  District  of  Alabama. 


TO 

# 

MRS.    L.    :N'.  WALTHALL, 

OP   MAMON,  AXABAMA, 

father's    friend, 

f  StAiCKit  t%x^  Volume, 

AS     A     GRATEFUL     AC KK 0 W LEDGM  E  N  T 

OF   KINDNESS   WHICH   CAN    BE 

NEITHER   REPAID    NOR   FORGOTTEN. 


(iii) 


602794 


TO  THE  READER. 


X 


The  following  story  was  completed  several  months  before  the 
termination  of  the  war,  the  result  of  which,  so  different  from  our 
anticipations,  seemed  at  first  to  necessitate  a  change,  or  at  least 
a  modification  of  many  of  the  opinions  and  hopes  confidently 
expressed  by  some  of  the  characters.  Upon  reflection,  however, 
it  was  decided  to  leave  it  as  it  is ;  a  truthful  picture  as  it  is 
believed  to  be,  not  only  of  scenes  and  events  which  occurred  im- 
mediately around  the  author's  home,  but  also  of  the  inner 
thoughts  and  feelings,  the  hopes  and  expectations,  in  a  word, 
the  animus  of  the  Southern  heart.  In  the  delineation  of  scenes, 
all  exaggeration  has  been  avoided,  and  a  middle  ground  has 
been  taken.  One  section  of  the  country  will  most  probably 
pronounce  them  overdrawn;  the  other,  alas!  will  know  and 
feel  that  "  the  half  has  not  been  told." 

I  send  my  book  out,  neither  challenging  nor  fearing  criticism. 
It  pretends  to  have  no  great  literary  merit ;  but  it  does  'claim 
to  belong  rather  to  truth  than  to  fiction,  and  this  claim  will  be 
acknowledged  by  thousands  of  hearts  in  this,  our  land. 

M.  A.  C. 

HuNTSViLLE,  Ala., 

March,  1866. 

1*  (v) 


CAMERON  HALL. 


CHAPTER  I. 


A  PLEASANT,  old-fashioned  Yirginia  country  house  was  Came- 
ron Hall ;  not  old  fashioned  in  the  English  sense  of  the  word, 
with  the  clustering  ivy,  the  growth  of  centuries,  clinging  to  its 
moss-grown  walls,  but  old  fashioned  in  the  meaning  of  that  word 
in  this  country  of  rapid  progress  and  development.  The  Hall 
had  been  built  by  Mr.  Cameron's  grandfather,  and  was  therefore 
regarded  in  this  new  world  of  ours  as  a  very  old  mansion.  The 
present  proprietor  had  no  sympathy  with  that  restless  propensity 
to  modernize,  that  is  so -common  in  this  age  and  land.  He  was 
content  with  the  old  homestead  as  it  was,  and  the  associations, 
which  extended  far  back  to  his  early  childhood  and  infancy,  were 
more  valuable  to  him  than  those  so-called  modern  improvements 
by  which  the  old  house,  as  if  ashamed  of  what  in  reality  made  it 
venerable,  should,  .like  the  frail  old  devotee  of  fashion,  seek  to 
hide  its  age  beneath  a  fictitious  show  of  youth.  The  old-fash- 
ioned appearance  of  the  Hall  was  not  unlike  its  old-fashioned 
hospitality ;  and  in  winter  none  remembered  that  the  spacious  fire- 
place was  old  fashioned  when  its  blazing  fire  of  hickory  logs  diflfused 
warmth  and  cheerfulness  through  its  spacious  rooms,  nor  in  sum- 
mer, when  its  windows,  opening  down  to  the  floor  upon  a  pleas- 
ant veranda,  gave  free  admission  to  the  cool  country  breeze,  did 
any  recollect  that  those  windows  were  too  narrow  and  the  panes 
of  glass  too  small  to  meet  the  requirements  of  modern  architec- 
ture. At  all  times  and  seasons  its  wide-spread  doors  were  open 
to  receive  the  many  guests  who  were  not  unwilling  to  accept  its 
invitations ;  and  the  Christmas  festivities  and  the  summer  parties 
at  Cameron  Hall  afforded  both  present  enjoyment  and  pleasing 
memories  to  all  who  participated  in  them. 

Mr.  Cameron's  was  one  of  those  calm,  unrufiled  spirits  whose 
equanimity  is  not  easily  disturbed.  His  was  a  quiet  rather  than 
an  enthusiastic  temperament,  and  he  found  in  his  own  home,  and 
in  his  domestic  circle,  all  the  earthly  happiness  that  he  desired. 

(t) 


8  CAMERON     HALL. 

The  stream  of  his  life  had  always  flowed  with  a  gentle  current, 
for  although  he  had  his  trials  like  other  men,  still  he  bore  with 
patient  fortitude  what  would  have  chafed  and  fretted  a  more  rest-- 
less  disposition;  and  those  who  looked  upon  his  placid  face  often 
attributed  to  prosperous  circumstances  a  serenity  which  was  in 
truth  mainly  due  to  his  own  even  temper. 

His  wife  was,  by  nature,  a  gentle,  dependent  woman,  and  made 
still  more  so  by  disease  and  weakness ;  but  she  leaned  with  un- 
swerving trust  upon  the  strong  arm  and  the  strong  love  that  had 
supported  her  for  so  many  years,  and  the  life  that  might  other- 
wise have  been  wearisome  if  not  intolerable,  was  rendered  as 
calm  and  peaceful  as  unwearied  attention  and  gentle  offices  could 
make  it.  As  husband  and  wife,  there  was  nothing  to  disturb  the 
serenity  of  their  happiness ;  but  as  father  and  mother,  they  had 
much  to  cause  anxiety  and  to  cloud  their  hearts. 

Their  family  consisted  of  two  sons  and  two  daughters. 

George,  the  eldest,  was  a  wayward,  moody,  self-willed  boy,  one 
of  those  incomprehensible  freaks  of  nature,  which  makes  one  mem- 
ber of  the  family  circle  utterly  unlike  all  the  rest,  inheriting  the 
disposition  of  neither  father  nor  mother,  and  developing  from  the 
same  training  with  the  others,  entirely  different  results.  His 
mother  had  tried  every  kind  of  discipline  with  him,  until,  worn 
out  in  the  unequal  conflict,  rendered  still  more  unequal  by  her 
weakness  and  shattered  nerves,  she  had  at  last  given  up  every- 
thing except  praying  for  him  and  loving  him.  He  was  now  a 
tall,  stalwart  youth,  robust  and  well  made,  and  but  for  the  dark 
frown  that  generally  clouded  his  brow,  he  would  have  been  ex- 
tremely handsome.  In  his  intercourse  with  his  younger  brother 
and  sisters,  there  was  nothing  kind  or  endearing.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  had  ruled  them  all  with  a  rod  of  iron,  until  they  had 
learned  to  regard  him  with  mingled  fear  and  dislike. 

The  little  Julia  was  a  gentle,  thoughtful  child,  several  years 
younger  than  George.  She  had  been,  all  her  life,  the  companion 
of  her  invalid  mother,  and  had  learned  in  her  sick-room  to  be 
quiet  beyond  her  years.  The  circumstances  of  her  childhood  had 
conspired  to  render  her  mature  and  womanly.  Whenever  her 
mother  was  confined  to  her  bed,^she  was  the  housekeeper;  and 
the  pleasure, and  pride  that  she  felt  when  her  father  called  her 
"his  little  woman,"  urged  her,  even  in  early  childhood,  to  emu- 
late those  virtues  and  perform  those  duties  which  belonged  to  her 
mother. 

Walter,  the  third  child,  was  five  years  old ;  a  thorough  boy, 
full  of  fun  and  frolic  and  noise,  shouting  and  hallooing  all  day 
long  in  the  exuberance  of  life  and  animal  spirits,  and  bounding 
and  rushing  through  the  house,  with  his  dog  Carlo  at  his  heels, 


CAMERON    HALL.  9 

until  his  mother's  nerves  could  bear  no  more,  and  she  would  offer 
him  a  reward  (which  he  was  never  known  to  win)  if  he  would  sit 
still  one  half  hour.  Unlike  his  brother,  he  was  social  in  his  dis- 
position, and  as  he  found  in  George  a  tyrannical  ruler  rather  than 
an  elder  brother,  and  as  he  could  not  be  interested  in  Julia's  quiet 
amusements,  he  was  thrown  upon  his  baby-sister,  Eva,  for  society, 
and  these  two,  the  youngest  of  the  family,  were  inseparable. 

Eva  was  just  three  years  old,  and  tottered  about  all  day  long 
at  Walter's  side.  When  she  grew  tired,  he  used  to  put  her  into 
her  little  carriage  and  pull  her  about,  under  the  supervision  of 
Mammy  Nancy,  the  old  nurse ;  but  one  day  when  she  was  out  of 
sight,  Master  Walter  slipped  his  little  sister  hastily  into  the  carriage, 
and,  promising  her  "  a  splendid  ride,"  went  tearing  along  furiously 
down  the  graveled  carriage-way  that  led  from  the  house  to  the 
gate  of  the  lawn.  Of  course  the  carriage  was  upset,  and  Eva's 
screams  brought  Mammy  Nancy  to  the  spot,  where  she  found  the 
little  culprit  trembling  with  terror,  and  wiping  away  the  blood 
from  his  sister's  face.  Since  that  time  he  had  been  forbidden 
ever  to  "play  horse"  again  to  Eva's  carriage;  and  afraid  now 
ever  to  trust  the  two  children  together  out  of  her  sight,  the 
limbs  of  the  old  nurse  often  ached  in  her  vain  effort  to  follow 
them  in  their  ceaseless  round.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the 
little  maiden  Julia  frequently  offered  to  relieve  Mammy,  by  taking 
charge  of  Eva ;  and  as  she  could  be  implicitly  trusted,  she  very 
soon  established  her  claim  to  be  as  good  a  nurse  for  the  baby  as 
she  was  for  her  mother. 

Her  quiet  and  gentle  firmness  soon  gave  her  a  sort  of  motherly 
authority  and  Influence,  not  only  over  her  baby-sister,  but  also 
over  Walter,  who,  though  only  three  years  younger  than  her- 
self, always  acknowledged  her  supremacy,  and  obeyed  her  when 
he  only  laughed  at  his  old  nurse. 

Eva,  the  joyous  little  Eva,  was  the  sunbeam  of  the  household. 
Sunny-faced,  sunny-haired,  sunny-hearted,  she  seemed  the  very 
embodiment  of  sunshine.  The  merry  laugh,  however  loud  and 
ringing,  never  disturbed  her  mother,  or  jarred  her  nerves,  and 
the  little  face,  always  smiling,  and  set  in  a  frame-work  of  fair 
clustering  curls,  was  ever  welcome.  Nobody  ever  passed  her 
without  a  caress :  sometimes  a  kiss,  sometimes  a  gentle  tap  upon 
the  plump,  white  neck,  or  a  pull  at  her  curls,  and  sometimes  only 
a  word ;  but  in  return  she  always  gave  a  bright,  arch  look  from 
her  brown  eyes,  or  a  happy  smile.  Her  brother  George  was  the 
only  one  who  ever  passed  her  without  notice,  and  from  him  she 
always  seemed  to  shrink.  He  did  not  often  make  any  overtures 
to  her,  and  when  he  did,  it  always  galled  and  fretted  him  to  see 
that  she  resisted  all  his  efforts  to  make  friends  with  her.     She 


10  CAMERON    HALL. 

was  afraid  of  him,  and  whenever  she  saw  him  coming,  she  would 
hide  her  head  in  Mammy  Xaney's  lap,  or  under  Julia's  apron. 

As  to  Walter,  he  did  not  love  his  brother,  but,  true  boy  that  he 
was,  he  was  not  afraid  of  him.  While  the  difference  in  their 
ages  would,  under  any  circumstances,  have  prevented  them  from 
being  companions,  yet  there  were  many  ways  in  which  George, 
as  the  elder  brother,  might  have  won  the  little  Walter's  heart 
and  made  him  love  him.  But  the  reverse  was  the  case ;  and 
sometimes,  either  to  assert  the  authority  to  which  he  thought  his 
superior  age  entitled  him,  or  else  from  an  innate  love  of  seeing 
others  unhappy,  George  invaded  Walter's  domain  and  inter- 
fered with  his  amusements.  In  these  contests,  Walter  was  of 
course  always  worsted  ;  but,  undaunted  and  defiant  still,  he  as- 
serted his  rights  just  as  boldly  the  next  time,  to  find  himself  again 
overcome  by  superior  strength.  Sometimes,  stung  by  a  sense  of 
injustice  and  wrong,  and  unable  to  defend  himself,  the  little 
Walter  appealed  to  his  mother ;  but  Julia,  seeing  how  sick  and 
exhausted  she  invariably  was  after  one  of  those  scenes  with 
George,  tried  herself  to  be  first  Walter's  champion,  and  after- 
ward a  peace-maker,  and  was  generally  unsuccessful  in  both  ca- 
pacities. 

All  through  the  years  of  his  childhood,  Mr.  Cameron  had 
watched  this  son  with  anxiety,  but  as  in  all  the  circumstances  of 
life  he  was  accustomed  to  be  serene  and  hopeful,  so  he  was  now. 
Like  his  wife,  he  too  had  tried  every  kind  of  discipline ;  he  had 
tried  first  to  make  him  love  him,  and  then  to  fear  him,  had  ap- 
pealed to  all  that  might  be  noble  and  generous  in  his  nature,  and 
afterward  had  tried  the  effect  of  severity.  He  did  not  know 
what  else  to  do  now  except  to  wait  patiently  for  results  which 
he  could  not  but  acknowledge  were  long  in  coming.  George  was 
now  old  enough  to  be  somewhat  of  a  companion  for  his  father, 
who  thought  that  to  place  hini  on  an  equality  with  himself,  to 
discuss  his  plans  with  him,  and  to  interest  him  in  his  business 
affairs  might,  by  making  him  realize  that  he  was  one  day  to  be  a 
man  like  his  father,  and  even  to  take  his  father's  place,  fire  his 
ambition  to  emulate  the  virtues  of  manhood ;  but  it  was  all  of  no 
avail.  He  sought  George's  society,  offered  to  participate  in  his 
amusements,  and  treated  him  not  only  as  a  son  but  as  an  equal 
too  ;  but  the  boy  could  not  be  won.  Generally  sullen  and  moody, 
he  seemed  to  want  no  society,  and  yet  this  habitual  temper  was 
sometimes  lighted  up  by  a  vivacity  and  sprightliness  which  showed 
how  much  there  was  both  of  mind  and  of  the  capacity  to  please, 
if  he  only  chose  to  exercise  it.  Even  at  this  early  age,  called  by 
common  consent  "the  awkward  age,"  George  Cameron  showed, 
when  he  pleased,  much  of  his  father's  courtesy  and  ease  of  man- 


CAMERON    HALL.  11 

ner;  and  if  his  hnmor  prompted,  could  make  himself  as  agreeable 
to  the  guests  of  his  father  and  mother  as  to  those  of  his  own  age. 
But  these  occasional  and  fitful  gleams  were  like  the  fringe  of  sun- 
light upon  the  thunder-cloud,  showing  how  dark  and  impenetra- 
ble must  be  the  veil  which  can  hide  so  much  light. 

The  only  use  that  George  seemed  to  have  for  his  kind,  was  to 
tyrannize.  He  loved  to  be  supreme,  to  control;  not  only  him- 
self to  know  his  power,  but  to  make  others  feel  it  too.  It  was  an 
unnatural  and  enormous  development  of  that  feeling  which  be- 
longs to  man,  which  was  implanted  in  his  nature  for  wise  pur- 
poses, and,  if  properly  restrained,  will  produce  wise  and  beneficial 
results.  Man's  consciousness  and  love  of  power  is,  when  prop- 
erly exercised,  one  of  the  noblest  elements  of  his  manhood.  It 
gives  stability,  firmness,  self-reliance  to  him  who  needs  them  all, 
not  only  for  himself,  but  also  for  that  weaker  sex  whom  God  has 
intrusted  to  his  keeping :  but  unrestrained  or  abused,  it  allies 
him  who  was  "made  in  God's  own  image,"  to  those  fallen  spirits 
whose  love  of  power  was  their  ruin. 

George  tyrannized  over  all  who  came  within  his  reach,  and  the 
contests  between  Walter  and  himself  became  more  instead  of  less 
frequent,  as  they  grew  older.  In  one,  the  love  of  power  was 
strengthened  by  daily  indulgence;  and  in  the  other,  a  determined 
resistance  grew  stronger  iu*  proportion  as  he  learned  better  his 
own  rights  and  the  injustice  of  his  brother's  usurpation. 

Mr.  Cameron  saw  it  all  with  pain.  He  was  too  just  a  man, 
too  true  a  father,  to  allow  the  stronger  child  to  oppress  the 
weaker,  and  whenever  he  knew  it  he  interfered ;  but  his  efforts 
with  George  had  all  been  so  fruitless,  and  his  conflicts  with  him 
were  so  painful,  that,  disheartened  and  discouraged,  he  tried  not 
to  see  these  childish  difficulties,  and  to  allow  the  children  to  settle 
them  themselves. 

This  son,  the  first  born,  was  the  only  domestic  sorrow  that  Mr. 
Cameron  had  ever  known.  The  bond  between  himself  and  his 
wife  was  a  marriage  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.  They  were 
one  in  heart  and  soul,  in  interests  and  sympathies,  and  the  fervor 
of  youthful  passion,  unhke  the  foam^crest  upon  the  wave  which 
leaves  no  trace  behind,  had  been  rather  like  a  little  rill,  which,  as 
years  passed  on,  had  deepened  and  widened  into  a  quiet  and  sub- 
dued, but  a  strong,  full  current  of  affection.  She  had  now  been 
so  long  an  invalid  that  the  anxieties  which  he  felt  at  first  were 
all  gone.  She  had  been  spared  so  long,  and  from  year  to  year 
was  so  little  changed  in  appearance,  that  her  husband,  clinging 
to  her  with  the  hope  that  always  sustained  him,  seemed  to  forget 
that  disease,  unchecked,  must  at  last  sap  the  foundations  of  life. 
She  was  not  always  confined  to  her  bed,  or  even  to  her  room,  and 


12  CAMERON    HALL. 

if  her  wasted  form  and  pallid  cheek  sometimes  excited  his  fears, 
they  were  soon  allayed  by  her  uncomplaining  patience  and  uniform 
cheerfulness. 

And  so  it  had  gona  on  for  years.  She  still  loved  to  see  her 
friends,  and  to  have  them  in  her  house,  although  her  days  of 
health  and  strength  were  gone;  and  no  child  enjoyed  the  Christ- 
mas-tree, and  the  Christmas  dance  after  it,  more  than  the  in- 
valid mother,  who,  wrapped  in  shawls  and  seated  close  by  the 
fire,  watched  the  bright  eyes  and  the  happy  faces  of  childhood, 
and  whose  kindly  heart  kindled  with  the  pleasure  that  was  re- 
flected from  theirs. 

One  day,  in  the  early  summer,  Julia,  Walter,  and  Eva  were 
sitting  on  the  lawn  upon  the  grass  under  an  oak-tree.  Walter 
was  making  curls  of  dandelion  stalks,  which  his  sister  fastened  in 
among  Eva's  curls,  while  Julia  herself  was  twining  a  wreath 
with  which  to  surmount  the  whole,  and  thus  arrayed,  the  child 
was  to  be  taken  in  to  see  mamma  and  Mammy  Nancy.  Julia 
and  Walter  were  very  busy,  when  the  former  felt  Eva  creep  up 
close  to  her  side,  and  the  little  head  was  nestled  against  her 
shoulder.  Julia  looked  round  and  saw  George  coming  toward 
them. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  baby,"  she  whispered  ;   "he  won't  hurt  you." 

Walter  now  looked  up  from  his  w&ck  and  squared  himself  for 
the  approaching  contest,  for  experience  had  taught  him  that 
whenever  he  and  George  were  together,  such  a  result  was  inevi- 
table. 

Julia  patted  him  on  the  head,  and  said : 

"Be  a  quiet,  good  boy  now,  Walter.  Go  on  making  your 
curls,  and  don't  notice  George.  Perhaps  he  won't  say  anything 
to  vou." 

The  child  did  not  reply,  but  he  gave  a  little  defiant  toss  of  his 
head,  which  said  plainly  that  he  intended  to  maintain  his  rights 
if  it  should  become  necessary. 

George  came  along,  apparently  not  intending  to  stop;  but 
when  he  saw  Walter's  work,  he  paused,  and  said  disdainfully: 

"  Turning  girl,  Walter,  are  you  ?  I  always  thought  that  it  was 
a  pity  you  had  not  been  born  a  girl,  you  love  to  stay  with  them 
so  much,  and  try  so  hard  to  be  like  them." 

He  well  knew  how  this  taunt  would  exasperate  the  child,  who, 
with  true  boyish  nature,  would  rather  be  called  anything  in  the 
world  than  a  girl.  His  face  grew  red  and  his  eyes  filled,  but  he 
choked  back  the  tears  which  he  knew  would  only  bring  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  hateful  epithet.  He  sprang  from  his  seat,  dashed  his 
dandelion  curls  upon  the  ground,  and,  planting  himself  firmly  and 
squarely  before  his  antagonist,  he  said,  half  crying ; 


CAMERON     HALL.  13 

"  I  would  rather  be  a  girl — yes,  I  would  rather  be  two  girls — 
than  to  be  such  a  cross  boy  as  you  are.  If  ever  I  grow  up  to  be 
like  you,  I'd  be  sorry  sure  enough  that  God  didn't  make  me  a 

girl !" 

George  held  in  his  hand  a  willow  twig,  and  his  only  reply  to 
the  child  was  a  contemptuous  flourish  of  it,  which,  either  acci- 
dentally or  otherwise,  stung  Walter's  hand  severely.  He  cried 
out  with  the  pain,  and  Julia,  jumping  up  and  placing  herself  be- 
fore Walter,  exclaimed  indignantly : 

•  *'  For  shame  !  for  shame  !  you  are  a  coward  to  treat  a  little  boy 
so,  and  you  shan't  do  it  if  I  can  help  it !  If  you  want  to  strike, 
strike,  but  Walter  shall  not  feel  it." 

So  saying,  she  planted  herself  so  as  to  shield  him;  but  there 
was  no  need  now.  George  forgot  Walter  altogether  in  his  rage 
at  being  called  a  coward  by  such  a  child  as  Julia,  and  this  time, 
intentionally,  the  switch  cut  her  severely  across  the  face,  leaving 
a  bright  red  mark. 

She  screamed  with  the  pain,  and  then  hot,  passionate  tears 
rushed  down  her  cheeks.  Seizing  Eva,  she  partly  carried  and 
partly  dragged  her  to  the  house  to  lay  the  case  before  mamma, 
and  had  almost  reached  her  mother's  door  before  she  remembered 
that  her  father  had  told  her  never  to  disturb  her  mother  with  any 
childish  quarrels,  and  so  she  changed  her  mind  and  went  to  him 
in  the  library. 

Mr.  Cameron  was  lying  asleep  on  the  sofa,  from  which  he 
started  up  in  haste  at  the  unusual  sound  of  that  sobbing  voice. 
She  did  not  often  cry,  and  never  before  had  her  father  seen  any- 
thing like  this  storm  of  passion.  Her  accustomed  gentleness  and 
quietness  only  made  her  present  excitement  the  more  remarkable, 
and  he  tried  in  vain  for  some  minutes  to  find  out,  between  the 
choking  sobs,  what  was  the  matter.  At  last  she  wiped  her  eyes, 
and,  looking  up  in  his  face,  pointed  to  the  bright  mark  just  under- 
neath her  eye,  and  sobbed  out : 

"  Brother  George  did  it  1" 

The  father  was  outraged.  If  there  was  a  spot  deep  down  in 
his  heart  more  tender  than  the  rest,  this  little  daughter  had  found 
it  and  nestled  there.  This  "little  woman  "was  often  his  only 
companion,  for  while  his  eldest  son  avoided  him,  and  the  two 
youngest  children  were  too  restless  to  be  contented  with  him  long 
at  a  time,  the  quiet  Julia  was  never  happier  than  when  with  her 
father,  nor  was  he  ever  lonely  if  she  was  near. 

The  sight  of  that  mark  upon  her  face  stirred  up  all  his  indig- 
nation, and,  rushing  out  on  the  veranda,  he  called  loudly  for 
George.  There  was  no  response  ;  and,  returning  to  the  library, 
Mr.  Cameron  muttered : 

2 


14  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Perhaps  it  is  well:  I  am  too  angry  to  talk  to  him  now." 

He  took  Julia  in  his  lap,  and  wiped  away  her  tears;  and  when 
her  excitement  was  suflBciently  abated,  he  made  her  tell  him  all 
the  particulars  of  the  occurrence.  She  related  it  all  just  as  it 
happened,  and  finished  by  saying,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  flash- 
ing eyes : 

"We  were  not  troubling  him,  papa.  We  were  attending  to  our 
own  business,  and  if  he  had  gone  along  and  attended  to  his,  all 
this  would  never  have  happened." 

Mr.  Cameron,  while  trying  to  calm  his  little  daughter,  was 
himself  greatly  excited,  and  the  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more 
indignant  he  became,  and  the  more  his  justice  revolted  from  the 
idea  of  permitting  one  child  thus  to  tyrannize  over  the  others. 
He  was  so  annoyed  and  perplexed  that  he  felt  incapable  of  ex- 
ercising his  usually  good  judgment,  and  although  he  endeavored 
to  keep  all  such  troubles  from  his  wife's  knowledge,  yet  he  felt 
constrained  to  lay  this  one  before  her  and  ask  her  advice.  When 
Julia  was  sufficiently  calmed,  he  left  her  to  entertain  herself  and 
Eva  in  the  librarv,  and  he  went  to  seek  his  wife. 

She  listened  in  silent  sorrow;  and  when  the  story  was  ended, 
her  husband  said: 

"Such  conduct  cannot  be  permitted.  It  is  not  only  unjust  to 
the  other  children,  but  to  ourselves  as  well.  It  will  not  be  long 
before  the  boy  will  be  so  tyrannical  and  overbearing,  that  even 
father  and  mother  will  be  set  aside  or  perhaps  trampled  upon.  I 
will  put  a  stop  to  it  at  once,  and  give  him  a  plain  talk  to-night, 
which  will  show  him  that  there  are  limits  even  to  my  forbear- 
ance ;  and  God  knows  that  if  ever  a  father  tried  forbearance  with 
a  wayward  son,  I  have  with  him." 

"Henry,"  said  his  wife,  laying  her  hand  gently  upon  his  arm, 
"let  me  manage  this  business.  You  are  excited  now,  and  so  is 
George,  and  if  you  come  in  conflict  you  will  both  probably  say 
something  that  were  better  left  unsaid.  I  am  calm;  and  I  am 
his  mother;  let  me  do  it,  will  you?" 

"  Yes,  wife,  if  you  say  so ;  but  you  are  too  feeble  to  be  worried 
and  excited  by  these  things  ;  and  besides,  you  are  too  genile  with 
him.     The  boy  needs  a  strong  curb." 

"I  will  be  firm  and  plain,  husband,"  she  answered;  "and  gen- 
tleness combined  with  these  will  surely  not  be  wrong.  I  shall  not 
conceal  from  George  what  I  think  of  his  conduct  generally,  and 
of  this  case  particularly.  While  I  remember  that  I  am  his  mother, 
I  shall  certainly  not  forget  that  I  am  also  the  mother  of  my  other 
children." 

"You  will  do  right,  wife,  I  know,"  he  replied.  "  I  only  wish 
that  I  had  self-control  enough  to  do  it  as  well,  and  save  you  the 
pain  and  sorrow." 


CAMERON    HALL.  15 

When  Mr.  Cameron  returned  to  the  library,  Julia  and  Eva 
were  sitting  upon  the  floor  with  a  large  book  open  before  them, 
looking  at  the  pictures;  at  least  Eva  was,  but  Julia  was  in  a 
deep  study.  She  did  not  look  up  or  notice  her  father  until  he 
was  close  to  her,  and  said : 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  little  daughter?" 

"About  myself  and  brother  George,  papa,  that  we  are  both 
naughty  children:  he,  for  striking  me,  and  I,  for  getting  into 
such  a  passion  and  running  to  tell  you.  Please,  papa,  don't  tell 
him  that  I  told  you,  and  don't  scold  him  for  it.  I  am  sorry  that 
I  was  angry  with  him,  and  may  be  he  is  just  as  sorry  that  he  struck 
me.     So  let  it  go,  will  you,  papa  ?" 

"  But,  Julia,  if  I  let  it  go,  he  may  strike  you  again,  and  I  must 
not  permit  that." 

"  No,  sir,"  she  answered  confidently,  "  he  will  never  strike  me 
again  if  he  thinks  that  I  wouldn't  tell  upon  him." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Because,  papa,  it  would  be  mean,  too  mean  for  him  to  strike 
me  when  he  knows  that  I  won't  tell  upon  him — no,  he  would 
never  do  that." 

Her  father  smiled  at  the  childish  magnanimity,  and  promised 
that  he  would  not  say  a  word  to  G-eorge  upon  the  subject. 

After  tea,  George  was  summoned  to  his  mother's  room.  What 
passed  at  the  interview  never  transpired;  but  that  night  she  had 
a  violent  hemorrhage  which  threatened  instant  death,  and  was, 
with  great  difficulty,  checked.  The  next  morning  George  was 
gone.  No  message  or  word  of  explanation  was  left,  no  farewell 
for  father  or  mother,  no  confession  of  wrong,  or  petition  for 

pardon. 

Mr.  Cameron  did  not  tell  his  wife.  Prostrate  in  body  and 
broken  hearted,  she  asked  no  questions  and  made  no  allusion  to 
him.  The  physician  had  forbidden  her  to  speak;  but  once  or 
twice,  as  her  husband  bent  over  her  pillow,  he  caught  the  low 
murmur : 

"Oh,  the  pang  of  a  thankless  child !  a  thankless  child  I" 

Three  days  afterward  she  died. 


^  "^    ^ 


«« 
« 


16  CAMERON    HALL. 


CHAPTER  11. 

Several  years  had  now  passed  away.  From  George  himself 
Mr.  Cameron  had  never  received  a  line ;  but  once  or  twice  he 
had  heard  of  him,  tidings  not  very  welcome  to  a  father's  ear. 
Children  soon  forget;  and  the  name  of  George,  once  as  familiar 
in  the  household  as  that  of  Julia  or  Walter'became  a  strange, 
unaccustomed  sound.  Eva  had  no  recollection  whatever  of  the 
brother  who  had  been  the  terror  of  her  infancy,  and  with  Walter 
his  memory  was  more  liiie  a  painful  dream  than  a  reality.  Julia, 
of  course,  remembered  him  well,  and  that  last  painful  scene ;  but 
her  father  had  taken  care  that  she  should  never  know  that  it  had 
aught  to  do  with  his  departure  from  home,  or  with  her  mother's 
death.  She  was  an  undemonstrative  child ;  but  she  had  a  warm, 
affectionate  heart,  and  he  well  knew  how  it  would  grieve  her  in 
after-life  to  know  that  a  childish  quarrel  with  her  had  been  the 
cause  of  a  brother's  voluntary  exile,  or,  what  was  still  worse,  that 
it  had  remotely  caused  the  death  of  the  mother  whom  she  so 
dearly  loved. 

Only  the  father  still  remembered  George  with  a  painful,  bitter 
memory — not  only  as  his  wayward,  undutiful  son,  but  as  the  im- 
mediate cause  of  a  calamity  which  would  darken  all  the  rest  of  his 
life ;  but  the  name  of  George  never  passed  his  lips,  and,  as  years 
rolled  by  and  he  was  immersed  in  the  cares  and  duties  of  life,  it 
might  have  seemed  that  the  father,  as  well  as  the  children,  had 
forgotten  the  rebellious  son. 

The  education  of  his  children  now  engrossed  much  of  Mr. 
Cameron's  thought.  They  were  quite  old  enough  to  go  to  school, 
and  there  were  no  good  schools  in  Hopedale.  They  were  too 
young  to  send  from  home,  even  if  he  had  been  willing  to  do  so ; 
but  he  never  for  a  moment  entertained  such  a  thought.  He  did 
not  think  that  any  education  could  compensate  for  the  loss  of 
home  influence;  and,  besides  this,  he  could  not  consent  to  subject 
himself  to  a  life  of  loneliness  without  his  children.  He  had  been 
trying  for  some  time  to  secure  the  services  of  a  governess ;  but 
upon  this  point,  too,  he  had  peculiar  notions,  which  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  satisfy,  and  so  he  had  himself  taught  his  children  at  home. 

One  day  about  this  time  the  little  Julia  came  running  in  to  tell 
her  father  that  Mr.  Derby  was  coming;  and  Mr.  Cameron  went 
out  to  meet  the  minister. 

When  they  were  seated  in  the  library,  Mr.  Derby  said : 


^ 


CAMERON    HALL.  •  17 

"Well,  sir,  you  could  at  last  have  your  long- wished  for  gov- 
erness but  for  one  thing,  which  I  am  afraid  will  prove  a  grave 
deficiency.  The  lady  is  a  Southerner,  and  feels  herself  quite  ca- 
pable of  teaching ;  but  unfortunately  she  comes  without  reference 
or  recommendation," 

"  Unfortunately  truly,  I  should  think,  for  her  hopes  of  success. 
This,  of  course,  sir,  decides  me  at  once.  I  cannot  consent  to  re- 
ceive into  my  family  and  commit  my  motherless  children  to  the 
care  and  training  of  a  stranger  who  comes  without  reference  or 
recommendation.  You  know,  Mr.  Derby,  that  my  circumstances 
require  me  to  be  doubly  careful.  I  have  to  be  both  father  and 
mother  to  my  children.     Is  she  a  young  woman?" 

"  Scarcely  more  than  twenty,  I  judge.  I  always  feel  a  profound 
pity  when  I  see  a  woman  scarcely  more  than  a  girl,  just  when  she 
seems  most  to  need  the  protecting  shelter  of  home,  thrown  out 
upon  this  hard  world  to  struggle  for  herself.  My  sympathies  are 
greatly  enlisted  for  this  young  stranger.  Young  and  friendless, 
ignorant  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  without  experience,  life 
promises  to  be  a  rough  and  thorny  road  for  her." 

''  If  she  is  so  young  and  inexperienced,  Mr.  Derby,  perhaps 
she  does  not  know  the  value  of  references ; — but,  pshaw !  that  can- 
not be  either,  for,  if  she  were  so  ignorant  herself,  she  surely  would 
have  some  friends  to  tell  her  better.  Give  me  her  address,  Mr. 
Derby  ;  I  will  write  to  her  myself.  If  She  is  a  proper  person,  I 
would  like  extremely  to  have  her,  for  my  children  (Julia  especi- 
ally) are  old  enough  to  require  more  regular  teaching  than  I  give 
them ;  and  yet  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind  to  send  them  away  from 
home  to  school." 

"You  can  see  Mrs.  Merton,  Mr.  Cameron,  by  riding  into 
town." 

"Already  herel"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cameron.  "Does  she  expect 
to  drop  down  into  a  community,  a  perfect  stranger  and  without 
recommendation,  and  get  employment  at  once?  She  must  be 
inexperienced,  indeed." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Cameron,  I  scarcely  know  what  she  expects  or 
what  she  intends  to  do.  I  received  a  note  from  her  yesterday 
requesting  me  to  call  and  see  her  immediately,  which  I  did.  She 
looked  so  young  and  so  helpless,  she  seemed  to  have  so  little 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  yet  withal  such  a  strong,  brave  pur- 
pose to  aid  herself  by  any  honest  means,  that  I  could  not  help 
getting  interested  in  her ;  nor  could  you,  I  am  sure,  sir,  if  you  were 
to  see  her.  And  then,  too,  she  has  a  blind  child  about  a  year 
old." 

"A  child! — hal"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cameron,  as  his  brow  dark- 
ened J  and,  after  a  short  pause,  he  added  decidedly : 

2* 


18   •  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  A  stranger  without  reference.     No,  sir,  I  could  not  have  her 
as  governess  for  my  daughters." 

"  I  am  not  surprised,  Mr.  Cameron,  that  you  should  feel  so ; 
for  it  is  not  only  natural,  but  it  is  right  that  you  should  know  to 
whom  you  commit  the  training  of  your  children.  I  myself  feel 
persuaded  that  you  would  run  no  risk  in  opening  your  doors  to 
this  stranger;  but  I  cannot  prove  it  to  you.  I  judge  only  from 
appearances,  which  are  not  always  to  be  relied  on,  and  it  is  pos- 
sible that  in  this  instance  I  may  be  mistaken.  I  have  promised 
to  do  what  I  can  for  her;  but  I  must  acknowledge  to  others,  as 
I  have  to  you,  that  she  is  a  stranger,  and  comes  I  know  not 
whence,  and  without  recommendation.  All  these  things  must,  of 
course,  be  obstacles  in  the  way  of  her  success,  and  so  I  told  her  * 
frankly. " 

"And  what  did  she  say  to  that  ?" 

"  She  only  answered  that  she  had  no  reference,  nor  was  it  pos- 
sible for  her  to  give  any ;  that  all  she  wanted  was  a  fair  trial,  and 
if  she  did  not  faithfully  perform  what  she  undertook  to  do,  that 
she  neither  expected  nor  desired  to  be  encouraged.  I  told  her, 
as  delicately  as  I  could,  that  more  than  this  was  generally  re- 
quired, and  that  parents  liked  to  know  something  of  the  character 
and  acquirements  of  those  to  whom  they  intrusted  their  children. 
She  seemed  neither  surprised  nor  resentful ;  but  a  slight  flush  was 
upon  her  pale  cheek  as  she  answered,  with  an  indescribable  sad- 
ness: 'I  can  tell  them  nothing  about  myself;  my  past  life  is  now 
dead  and  buried  ;  it  is  only  with  the  present  that  they  or  I  have 
anything  to  do.'  Her  words  made  me  feel  uncomfortable,  and  I 
could  not  repress  a  slight  feeling  of  annoyance  at  the  quiet  but 
decided  way  in  which  she  silenced  all  allusions  to  her  past  life ; 
and  yet  there  was  something  in  her  manner  and  deportment  which 
effectually  put  down  any  unpleasant  suspicions  that  her  words 
might  have  awakened.  She  seemed  as  free  from  vanity  and  self- 
sufficiency  as  any  person  that  I  ever  saw ;  and  yet  there  was  a 
quiet  confidence  in  her  own  capacity,  a  firm  self-reliance  which, 
while  it  was  not  inconsistent  with  humility,  relieved  her  at  once 
from  the  attitude  of  a  suppliant,  and  excited  an  involuntary  ad- 
miration. She  asked  for  nothing  except  an  opportunity  to  help 
herself;  and,  although  she  did  not  say  so  by  word  or  look,  yet  I 
suspect  that  if  I  do  not  help  her  to  find  the  opportunity,  she  will 
find  it  without  me.  The  only  thing  that  she  seems  fully  determ- 
ined upon  is  to  live  in  Hopedale.  What  she  is  to  do  here,  how 
she  is  to  support  herself, — these  are  still  open  questions ;  but  to 
stay  here  is  her  fixed,  unalterable  resolution." 

"  Did  she  give  you  any  reasons  for  this?" 

"  Two  or  three,  which  I  interpreted  rather  as  a  delicate  way  of 


CAMERON    HALL.  '  19 

declining  the  question  than  an  answer  to  it.  When  I  reminded 
her  that  Hopedale  was  a  very  small  town,  and  perhaps  she  might 
do  better  in  a  larger  sphere  of  action,  she  replied  very  quietly, 
but  with  an  indescribable  positiveness  that  permitted  no  further 
discussion:  '  No,  sir,  I  prefer  to  live  in  Hopedale.'  " 

"  What  do  you  propose  to  do  for  her,  Mr.  Derby  ?" 

"I  will  do  the  best  that  I  can,"  replied  the  minister;  "but 
that  will  be  little  enough.  I  would  willingly  do  more,  for  I  am 
persuaded  that  my  interest  and  sympathy  are  not  misplaced ;  but, 
unfortunately  for  us  both,  she  withholds  from  me  the  knowledge 
without  which  it  would  be  wrong  to  recommend  her.  All  that  I 
am  justified  in  doing  is  to  tell  others  what  I  have  told  you,  and, 
as  your  own  case  proves,  this  is  rather  to  excite  prejudice  than  to 
recommend.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  be  better  to  let  her 
make  her  own  way.  If  all  that  I  know  of  her  operates  against 
her  rather  than  otherwise,  it  were  better  left  unsaid  ;  if  I  cannot 
help  the  friendless  young  stranger,  I  would  not  certainly  do  any- 
thing to  injure  her  success." 

"  If  she  brought  no  letters,  how  did  she  happen  to  send  for 
you  ?" 

"  Simply  because  I  am  a  minister.  She  apologized  for  doing 
so,  and  said,  in  a  simple,  touching  way,  that  she  took  it  for 
granted  that  I  had  somewhat  of  my  Master's  compassion  for  the 
desolate  and  friendless,  and  that,  as  she  asked  and  needed  no- 
thing but  kind  words,  she  could  not  deem  it  presumption  to  ask 
them  from  a  minister  of  the  church." 

"  That  touched  you,  Mr.  Derby,  I  know ;  and  what  did  you 
answer  ?" 

"  I  could  not  and  I  ought  not,  Mr.  Cameron,"  he  replied  earn- 
estly, "to  have  been  satisfied  with  offering  kind  words  only,  those 
words  which,  St.  James  tells  us,  are  but  empty  wind  unless  accom- 
panied with  the  corresponding  action.  Desolate  and  friendless 
she  was,  indeed ;  she  needed  not  to  tell  me,  for  I  read  it  in  her 
face ;  frail  and  delicate,  and  with  a  blind  baby,  too  !  No,  sir ; 
words  only  would  not  have  done  for  such  a  case  as  that." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  ?" 

"  I  asked  her  to  go  home  with  me  until  she  had  decided  upon 
some  definite  plan  of  action." 

''Were  you  doing  justice  then,  Mr.  Derby,  to  yourself,  your 
wife  and  children  ?  Your  salary  is  small,  and  not  proportionate 
to  the  wants  of  your  own  family;  was  it  right  to  add  two  more 
to  your  household  ?  Excuse  the  liberty  that  I  take,  and  put  it 
all  down  to  the  account  of  my  personal  friendship  for  you.  You 
ministers  are  too  apt,"  he  added,  smiling,  "to  take  a  one-sided 
view  of  duty,  and  sometimes,  as  in  the  present  case,  you  need  a 


20  CAMERON    HALL. 

little  of  the  caution  of  the  man  of  the  world  to  adjust  the  bal- 


ance." 


"Xo  apology  is  necessary,  Mr.  Cameron,"  he  replied;  "our 
friendship  is  too  old  now  for  misunderstanding  or  misconception. 
I  will  answer  your  questions  as  frankly  as  you  have  asked  them. 
My  salary  is  small,  as  you  say,  scarcely  sufficient,  with  the  strictest 
economy,  to  meet  the  wants  of  my  household,  and  the  addition  of 
two  more  to  the  family  would  not  have  been  inconsiderable.  All 
these  things  I  took  into  the  account,  and  even  then  my  duty  was 
plain." 

"And  what  did  your  wife  say  to  your  bringing  to  your  house, 
and  making  one  of  your  family,  a  stranger,  who  herself  throws, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  a  painful  doubt  upon  her  past  history?" 

"My  wife,  sir,  learns  her  duty  from  the  same  book  that  I  do; 
and  there  we  have  both  been  taught  to  'entertain  the  stranger.'" 

Mr.  Cameron  shook  his  head  and  answered  : 

"  It  is  a  great  risk,  sir,  a  very  great  risk.  I  am  glad  that  your 
little  daughters  are  too  young  to  be  injured  by  wrong  influence. 
I  know  that  not  for  all  this  world  would  I  trust  my  little  woman 
with  her." 

"I  would  not  fear  anything,"  said  the  minister,  "from  that 
frank,  open  face ;  but  even  if  I  did,  my  duty  has  in  this  instance 
involved  no  sacrifice.     Mrs.  Merton  would  not  accept  my  ofifer." 

"  She  would  not !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cameron,  in  surprise. 

"  No,  sir ;  she  thanked  me  gratefully,  but  repeated  that  she 
intended  to  help  herself." 

"  That  is  the  right  spirit,  certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Cameron,  "and 
speaks  well  for  her  so  far  at  least. " 

"  Of  her  ability  to  do  that,  sir,  she  seems  never  to  have  enter- 
tained a  doubt ;  and  it  is  the  more  remarkable  because  she  is  so 
frail  looking.  She  does  not  look  strong  enough  to  bear  much 
fatigue,  either  bodily  or  mental,  and  yet  she  speaks  with  confi- 
dence of  supporting  herself  and  child  by  her  own  unassisted  ex- 
ertions." 

At  the  mention  of  the  child,  Mr.  Cameron's  brow  was  again 
clouded,  and  he  said,  almost  sharply : 

"  She  cannot  be  governess  for  my  children,  Mr.  Derby;  nor  if 
she  gets  a  school  shall  I  send  them  to  her." 

And  so  the  matter  ended.  The  young  stranger  succeeded  in 
getting  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  pupils  at  first;  but  to  these 
she  devoted  herself  with  energy  and  faithfulness,  and  it  was  not 
many  months  before  she  proved  to  Mr.  Derby  that  she  had  spoken 
truly  when  she  said  that  she  only  wanted  an  opportunity  to  help 
herself.  At  first  she  was,  of  course,  the  subject  of  much  painful 
comment  in  the  village.  She  knew  and  felt  it,  and  her  pale,  young 


CAMERON    HALL.  21 

face  would  flush  and  her  heart  throb  as  she  encountered  the 
curious,  doubtful  gaze,  or  heard  the  slighting  remark.     But  she 
lived  in  quiet,  unobtrusive  retirement,  and  busied  herself,  when  out 
of  school,  with  her  blind  baby,  which  was  at  once  her  anxiety 
and  her  comfort,  her  sorrow  and  her  only  pleasure.     As  time 
passed  on,  the  unknown  stranger  and  the  mysterious  circum- 
stances of  her  advent  into   Hopedale  were  forgotten  in  other 
more  important  personal  events,  and  Mrs.  Merton,  the  school- 
teacher, if  thought  of  at  all,  was  only  remembered  with  reference 
to  her  vocation,  and  none  seemed  to  think  or  care  that  she  had 
not  always  belonged  to  the  town.     The  minister  and  his  family 
were  almost  her  only  visitors.     Mr.  Derby's  interest  in  her,  so  far 
from  diminishing,  had  increased  with  his  more  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  her  character.     From  his  first  acquaintance  with  her,  he 
had  watched  her  narrowly  and  visited  her  frequently,  and  in  all 
his  intercourse  with  her  he  had  never  seen  anything  in  her  char- 
acter or  demeanor  to  make  him  recall  the  involuntary  admiration 
that  he  had  expressed  to  Mr.  Cameron.     On  the  contrary,  he  was 
more  and  more  convinced  that  whatever  unexplained  mystery  en- 
veloped her  early  life,  and  whatever  sadness  and  suffering  she  had 
endured,  it  was  no  fault  of  hers.     The  respect  that  he  had  felt 
for  the  young  stranger  had  gradually  deepened  into  a  warm 
affection  for  his  parishioner,  whose  friendlessness  only  served  to 
render  stronger  the  bond  that  bound  her  to  him,  her  only  friend. 
The  kindness  which  was  never  withdrawn  because  she  did  not 
give  him  her  confidence,  the  delicacy  which  carefully  avoided  al- 
lusion to  what  she  chose  to  envelop  in  mystery,  the  word  of  pas- 
toral sympathy  and  counsel  which  he  never  failed  to  leave  behind ; 
above  all,  his  interest  in  the  child  whose  infirmity  rendered  pov- 
erty and  friendlessness  double  evils, — all  these  touched  her  heart 
and  awakened  its  deepest  gratitude.     She  soon  learned  to  talk 
to  Mr.  Derby  without  reserve.     She  went  to  him  for  advice  as  if 
he  had  known  her  all  his  life  ;  but  of  that  life  she  still  said  not  a 
word.     It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if  it  were,  to  use  her  own  words, 
dead  and  buried,  and  as  if  she  not  only  intended  to  bury  itself 
but  its  memory,  too,  in  the  grave  of  the  past.     Often  had  the 
minister  wondered  that  upon  this  point  she  was  always  guarded ; 
she  never  forgot  herself,  and  never  had  he  in  one  single  instance 
heard  her  allude  to  herself  or  her  life  before  she  came  to  Hope- 
dale, 

That  she  still  had,  and  would  always  have,  a  heavy  burden  upon 
her  heart,  he  could  not  doubt,  for  it  was  written  upon  her  face  j 
but  she  had  a  quiet,  patient  way  of  bearing  it,  never  trying  to 
conceal  it  under  a  false  mirth,  and  yet  never  obtruding  it  upon 
the  notice  of  others ;  and  her  brave,  undaunted  spirit,  her  energy, 


22  CAMERON    HALL. 

SO  disproportionate  to  her  physical  strength,  and  her  determinar 
tion  to  take  care  of  herself  and  her  child, — all  these  seemed  to 
Mr.  Derby  very  remarkable  in  one  so  young ;  one,  too,  who,  it 
was  easy  to  see,  had  all  her  life  been  herself  taken  care  of,  and 
who  was  now  making  her  first  experiment  in  helping  herself. 
Such,  however,  the  minister  alone  knew  her  to  be  ;  to  the  rest  of 
the  world  she  was  only  Mrs.  Merton,  the  poor,  young  school- 
teacher, a  quiet,  inofi'ensive  woman,  remarkable  for  nothing  and 
intruding  upon  nobody. 

Ah,  how  little  does  the  world  know  of  our  inner  life  I  How 
many  a  heart,  whose  struggles  the  angels  watch  with  sympathy 
and  pity,  is  seamed  and  wrinkled  and  scarred  by  conflicts  of  which 
the  world  never  dreams!  how  many  a  young  life  totters  and  fal- 
ters, and,  alas  I  sometimes  falls,  under  a  burden  of  sorrow  far 
heavier  than  the  weight  of  years,  while  the  gay  and  jesting  world, 
like  the  priest  and  the  Levite,  passes  by  on  the  other  side  uncon- 
scious or  regardless  of  its  suffering  1 

Grace  Merton  had  been  in  Hopedale  two  years.  Her  school 
was  now  quite  flourishing,  and  she  had  rented  a  cottage,  very 
small  and  very  humble,  but  suflScient  for  the  requirements  of  her- 
self and  her  little  Agnes,  now  three  years  old.  Sometimes,  as 
she  sat  in  the  summer  evening  in  her  little  porch,  over  which  the 
sweet-brier  and  the  yellow-jasmine  clambered,  holding  Agnes 
in  her  lap,  and  trying,  with  such  patient  effort  and  with  such  a 
yearning  expression  upon  her  young  face,  to  teach  the  child  by 
the  sense  of  touch  what  flowers  were,  those  who  passed  by  for- 
got for  the  moment  that  she  was  Mrs.  Merton,  the  school-teacher, 
and  thought  of  her  with  sympathy  and  pity  as  the  young  mother 
of  a  blind  child. 

For  two  years  Mr.  Cameron  had  adhered  to  his  resolution,  and 
kept  his  children  from  Grace's  school.  As  he  was  a  man  of  in- 
fluence and  high  standing  in  the  community,  and  it  was  known 
that  he  had  long  wanted  to  send  them  to  a  good  school,  and  as 
Mrs.  Merton  had  now  established  the  claim  of  hers  to  be  so  con- 
sidered, it  was  remarked  that  Mr.  Cameron  did  not  patronize  it. 
Mr.  Derby  had  never,  of  course,  betrayed  his  conversation  with 
Mr.  Cameron  upon  that  subject;  but  there  were  not  wanting 
others  who  were  willing  to  tell  her  why  it  was,  and,  while  she 
could  not  blame  him,  still  it  stung  her  to  the  quick.  She  did  not 
know  Mr.  Cameron;  she  had  no  personal  knowledge  of  his  ge- 
nial temper,  his  kindliness,  his  warmth  and  cordiality  of  heart  and 
manner,  and  she  conceived  him  to  be  one  of  those  proud  sons  of 
the  Old  Dominion,  in  whom  the  republican  spirit  of  equality  and 
fraternity  had  not  yet  been  able  to  exterminate  the  inborn  patri- 
cian element,  who  reposed  with  serene  complacency  upon  his  an- 


CAMERON    HALL.  23 

cestral  name  and  dignity,  and  would  not  sully  either  by  giving 
countenance  to  the  unnamed  and  the  unknown.  And  while  she 
sorely  felt  this  peculiarity  in  her  own  individual  case,  yet  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  she  rather  sympathized  with  the  feeling  than  otherwise, 
and  if  this  alone  had  been  the  cause  of  Mr.  Cameron's  discoun- 
tenance (for  such  in  effect  it  was),  she  could  not  altogether  have 
despised  it;  but  she  knew  that  he  had  a  deeper,  a  better  reason 
than  this.  She  had  heard  the  circumstances  of  the  family,  that 
there  was  no  mother  to  train  and  guide  those  little  ones,  and  she 
could  not  but  respect  the  father's  anxiety  and  carefulness,  even 
though  in  her  own  case  she  felt  it  to  be  undue  and  misjudged,  to 
know  who  it  was  to  whom  he  intrusted  their  education.  On  the 
other  hand,  Grace  felt  that  two  years'  conscientious  fulfillment 
of  hei:  duty  had  entitled  her  to  the  confidence  of  the  community, 
and  she  could  not  but  know  that  Mr.  Cameron's  silent  disappro- 
bation was  very  much  to  be  deplored.  All  these  things  she  re- 
volved in  her  mind,  but  she  never  uttered  them,  not  even  to  Mr. 
Derby.  No  human  being  knew  that  she  had  ever  thought  of  Mr. 
Cameron  or  his  children.  Nor  had  he  been  altogether  unmind- 
ful of  her  and  her  school.  While  be  had  the  same  misgivings  as 
before  with  regard  to  her  past  history,  and  would  still  have  been 
unwilling  to  receive  her  as  an  inmate  of  his  family,  yet,  from 
what  he  had  heard  of  G-race  from  Mr.  Derby  and  others,  and, 
indeed,  from  what  he  himself  saw  of  her  Sunday  after  Sunday  in 
church,  he  was  willing  to  believe  that  he  would  run  no  risk  in  con- 
fiding his  children  to  her  care.  He  deemed  it  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  they  should  now  have,  besides  the  knowledge  to  be 
acquired  from  books,  that  other  training  which  children  get  in 
school ;  that  friction  of  clashing  spirits  and  interests  which  wears 
away  the  morbid  sensitiveness  of  some,  and  teaches  the  selfishness 
of  others  that  there  are  feelings  and  inclinations  in  the  world  be- 
sides their  own  to  be  consulted,  and  which  gives  to  all  a  foretaste 
adapted  to  their  age  and  capacity  of  those  trials  which  manhood 
and  womanhood  must  bring.  So  Mr.  Cameron  at  last  decided  to 
send  his  children  to  Mrs.  Merton's  school,  and  accordingly  one 
day,  much  to  her  surprise,  he  came  and  brought  them.  The  in- 
terview between  the  teacher  and  her  patron  was  brief,  but  it  was 
satisfactory  to  both.  He  felt  assured  that  he  left  his  children 
with  a  lady,  and  she  felt  equally  certain  that  in  imagining  Mr. 
Cameron  distant  and  frigid  and  haughty,  she  had  altogether  mis- 
judged him,  for  never  had  she  seen  greater  kindness  mingled  with 
courtesy  and  dignity. 

Every  morning  Mr.  Cameron  brought  his  children  to  school,  and 
came  for  them  again  when  they  were  dismissed  for  the  day.  All 
the  kindliness  of  his  nature  had  long  ago  gone  out  toward  the 


24  CAMERON    HALL. 

little  blind  child  whom  he  had  often  watched  in  church,  with  her 
face  all  radiant  whenever  the  organ  struck  up  ;  and  now,  when  he 
sometimes  called  at  the  school  before  it  was  dismissed,  he  would 
frequently  take  the  child  upon  his  lap  and  entertain  himself  with 
her  until  his  children  were  ready  to  go.  And  so,  before  long, 
quite  a  friendship  existed  between  them.  Agnes  very  soon  learned 
to  recognize  his  step,  and  she  could  distinguish  Mr.  Cameron  as 
readily  by  touching  his  hand  as  other  children  could  by  looking 
at  his  face.  Agnes  was  a  great  pet  among  the  scholars,  and  not 
one  of  them  could  ever  let  her  pass  without  a  kind  word  or  a 
gentle  touch.  Nor  was  it  surprising,  for  the  little  blind  child  was 
all  light  and  sunshine  except  in  her  eyes.  She  was  as  happy  and 
merry  as  a  bird,  and  in  the  recess  her  laugh  was  often  as  loud  and 
joyous  as  any  of  the  rest.  The  motherly  little  Julia  soon  made 
Agnes  her  firm  friend;  and  Grace,  while  she  anxiously  watched 
her  little  girl  if  any  of  the  other  children  took  her  out  to  play, 
always  confided  her  to  Julia's  care  without  a  thought  or  an  anx- 
iety. After  awhile,  Julia  and  Eva  wanted  to  take  Agnes  home 
with  them,  but  to  this  the  mother  would  not  consent.  Agnes  was 
almost  a  baby,  and  the  others  were  little  children,  quite  too  young 
to  be  intrusted  with  her;  but  one  day  Mr.  Cameron  himself  came 
and  promised  to  take  care  of  her.  The  child  was  delighted,  and 
afterward  it  became  a  common  occurrence  for  Agnes  to  spend 
the  day  at  Cameron  Hall.  Mr.  Cameron  often  took  her  with 
him  when  he  rode  on  horseback  over  his  plantation,  and  tried  to 
teach  her  with  a  patience  scarcely  less  than  that  of  the  mother 
herself.  Little  Julia  often  begged  her  teacher  to  go  home  with 
her,  but  she  never  did,  not  even  when,  in  process  of  time,  the 
childish  invitation  was  cordially  seconded  by  the  father.  She 
always  replied  by  saying: 

"  Thank  you,  but  you  must  excuse  me  ;  I  never  visit." 
One  summer  evening  Grace  was  sitting  on  the  porch  with 
Agnes  in  her  lap.  The  child  had  a  strange  fancy  for  flowers, 
not  only  for  fragrant  ones,  but  for  them  all.  The  mother  had 
taught  her  to  value  them,  and  herself  loved  to  see  them  about  the 
child,  and  so  A2:nes  almost  alwavs  had  a  flower  in  her  hand,  or 
one  pinned  upon  her  bosom.  The  mother  was  now  stringing  a 
garland  of  jasmine  blossoms  for  Agnes's  head,  such  as  all  chil- 
dren love  to  wear,  and  Agnes  herself  was  tracing  with  delicate 
touch  the  tiny  scollops  of  the  petals,  and  counting  the  stamens 
and  pistils  of  one  in  her  hand.  While  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Derby 
came  in-  at  the  gate.  He  was  always  welcome  there,  and  Grace 
hastened  to  gather  up  the  leaves  and  flowers  scattered  upon  the 
bench,  so  as  to  give  him  a  seat  beside  her.     He  had  reached  the 


CAMERON     HALL.  25 

porch  before  she  had  finished,  and  told  her  to  sit  still  and  he  him- 
self would  find  a  seat.  Her  work-basket  was  also  on  the  bench 
beside  her,  and  so  was  her  open  prayer-book  ;  and,  as  he  took  it 
up  to  remove  it,  his  eye  rested  upon  the  forty-second  Psalm, .that 
strange  and  beautiful  commingling  of  complaint  and  comfort,  of 
sorrow  and  support,  of  longing  and  fullness.  Several  verses  were 
marked,  and,  as  he  read  the  mournful  plaint,  "all  thy  waves  and 
storms  are  gone  over  me;"  "why  art  thou  so  full  of  heaviness, 
O  my  soul,  and  why  art  thou  so  disquieted  within  me  ?"  he  in- 
voluntarily looked  full  into  her  face.  In  that  look  there  was  no 
intrusive  curiosity,  no  desire  to  surprise  her  into  the  betrayal  of 
what  she  wanted  to  conceal;  it  was  a  look  of  sympathy,  nothing 
more,  but  of  sympathy  so  full,  so  tender,  so  compassionate,  that 
it  touched  a  chord  whose  vibrations  she  could  not  control.  For 
the  first  time  she  was  overpowered,  and  Mr.  Derby  looked  on  in 
silent  surprise  and  sorrow  as  she  bent  her  head  down  into  the 
child's  lap  and  wept  bitterly,  passionately.  Agnes  was  bewildered 
and  distressed.  The  storm  of  sorrow  she  could  not  see;  but 
she  could  hear  the  bursting  sobs,  and  could  feel  the  throbbings 
of  her  mother's  heart. 

After  awhile,  the  storm  ceased.  Her  head  was  still  buried  in 
Agnes's  lap,  but  she  was  quiet,  except  now  and  then  a  sob,  which' 
shook  her  whole  frame. 

Mr.  Derby  took  the  hand  that  fell  at  her  side,  and  said, 
gently : 

"  My  poor  Grace  I  how  I  wish  that  I  could  help  you  !" 

She  raised  her  head,  and  pushing  her  hair  nervously  back  from 
her  temples,  gazed  at  him  almost  wildly.  She  seemed  trying  to 
look  into  the  very  depths  of  his  heart  to  see  if  she  could  trust 
him.  Her  lonely  heart  was  starving  for  sympathy.  She  had 
borne  her  burden  so  long,  and  had  so  long  shut  up  her  grief  in 
her  own  breast,  that  she  felt  ready  to  faint  beneath  the  load. 
She  looked  long,  and  earnestly,  and  searchingly  into  the  min- 
ister's face,  and  then  murmured,  rather  to  herself  than  to  him : 

"Yes,  I  can  trust  him." 

And  she  did.  There,  in  the  gathering  shadows,  she  unfolded 
the  history  of  a  life  as  dark  as  the  twilight  around  her.  Mr. 
Derby  did  not  interrupt  her;  but  when  the  sad  story  was  ended, 
he  only  repeated  in  a  low  voice  the  familiar  words : 

"  Put  thy  trust  in  God  ;  for  I  will  yet  give  him  thanks  for  the 
help  of  his  countenance  1" 

Old  words  1  familiar  words !  but  for  all  that,  none  the  less  full 
of  comfort  and  of  counsel,  of  support  and  of  strength ;  and  as 
such  they  went  deep  down  into  her  soul. 

3 


26  CAMERON    HALL. 

When  the  minister  was  going  away,  she  clasped  his  hand  firmly, 
and  looked  at  him  earnestly,  beseechingly,  as  she  said: 
"You  will  keep  my  secret,  Mr.  Derby?" 
And  he  answered: 
"  Sacredly  1" 


CHAPTER  III. 

From  early  infancy  Agnes  had  manifested  a  passionate  love 
for  music.  She  loved  the  harmony  of  any  instrument,  and  the 
only  temptation  that  had  proved  irresistible  to  the  mother  to 
revive  the  songs  and  music  of  her  girlhood,  was  the  enjoyment 
of  the  little  blind  baby  who,  before  she  could  either  speak  or 
walk,  would  sit  contented  and  happy  for  hours  if  her  mother 
would  only  play  and  sing.  As  infancy  merged  into  childhood, 
this  love  of  music,  while  it  did  not  abate,  seemed  to  concentrate 
itself  upon  a  single  instrument — and  organ-music  became  her  pas- 
sion. Often  in  church  the  children  would  smile,  but  older  people 
looked  almost  with  awe  upon  the  blind  face,  so  radiant  with  more 
than  childish  happiness  as  she  listened  to  the  organ,  the  first  note 
of  which  always  brought  her  to  her  feet,  with  her  face  turned  to- 
ward the  place  whence  the  music  came.  Soon  she  wanted  to 
touch  the  organ  herself  and  see  if  she  too  could  not  bring  out  its 
harmonies;  and  when  she  was  scarcely  six  years  old,  her  mother 
obtained  permission  for  her  to  amuse  herself  at  the  organ  in  the 
church.  "To  amuse  herself"  was  the  mother's  literal  meaning 
and  expectation ;  she  little  dreamed  of  the  music  that  was  hidden 
in  that  childish  heart,  nor  did  she  know,  until  long  afterward, 
what  a  blessed  compensation  for  her  blindness  God  had  given 
Agnes,  and  that  music  would  be  to  her  instead  of  eyes.  It  soon 
became,  not  an  occasional  but  a  daily  enjoyment  for  the  child, 
who  spent  a  part  of  every  morning  at  the  church.  The  children 
missed  her  day  after  day  at  school,  and  when  they  asked  where 
she  was,  her  mother  always  replied,  with  a  smile  of  quiet  satis- 
faction : 

"  She  is  amusing  herself  at  the  organ." 

Yes,  the  blind  child  had  found  a  companion,  a  friend.  She 
needed  no  teacher,  for  experience  soon  taught  her  the  use  of  the 
instrument,  and  that  was  all  she  wanted.  She  cared  not  for  the 
composition  of  others;  what  she  required,  was  a  language  and 
expression  for  what  she  felt  in  her  own  heart. 


CAMERON    HALL.  27 

It  relieved  her  mother  of  much  anxiety  when  Agnes  found  this 
source  of  interest  and  pleasure.  She  felt  assured  that  her  little 
girl  was  safe  from  danger  when  she  had  sent  her  to  the  church 
under  the  care  of  the  faithful  servant  who  always  accompanied 
her,  and  she  knew  that  while  thus  employed,  she  did  not  feel  the 
weariness  and  loneliness  of  her  sad  life.  'No  !  Agnes  would  never 
again  be  lonely,  nor  indeed  was  she,  as  her  mother  for  a  long 
time  supposed,  without  other  companionship  in  the  church  ex- 
cept that  of  her  servant. 

There  was  in  the  town  a  harmless  idiot,  known  as  "  Silly  Joe," 
whom  the  compassionate  pitied,  and  the  heartless  jeered.  He 
wandered  about,  all  day  long,  with  vacant  stare,  never  receiving 
any  positive  unkindness,  and  happily  unconscious  that  he  was 
sometimes  the  subject  of  cruel  ridicule.  Soon  after  Agnes  began  to 
go  to  the  church  to  play,  Joe  found  his  way  there,  attracted  by 
sounds  to  which  he  was  unaccustomed,  and  which  pleased  his  ear. 
The  poor  idiot,  senseless  to  all  else,  was  interested  in  the  music, 
and  although  incapable  of  appreciating  the  genius  of  the  child- 
organist,  still  he  liked  the  sweet  sounds,  and  was,  by  degrees,  at- 
tracted to  the  child,  who  was,  in  some  way  or  other  unintelligible 
to  himself,  the  medium  through  which  he  enjoyed  this  pleasure. 
Gradually  a  friendship  grew  between  them  ;  and  a  sympathy, 
which  neither  could  explain,  and  of  which  neither  was  conscious, 
bound  these  two  together, — the  blind  child  and  the  idiot  boy. 
The  little  Agnes,  in  her  simplicity,  could  not  realize  his  deficien- 
cies, especially  since  she  could  not  see  the  face  upon  which  the 
stamp  of  idiocy  was  so  plainly  written;  and  Joe,  not  knowing 
what  blindness  meant,  was  drawn  to  his  new  friend,  not  by  any 
bond  of  conscious  sympathy,  but  simply  by  her  uniform  kindness 
to  him,  and  in  obedience  to  a  law  which  controls  alike  the  rational 
and  irrational  creation. 

One  day  Joe  wanted  to  take  Agnes's  place  at  the  organ,  to 
make,  as  he  said,  "a  pretty  noise."  Agnes  laughingly  assured 
him  that  she  could  make  much  better  music  than  he ;  but  Joe  in- 
sisted, and,  to  gratify  him,  she  yielded  her  place. 

The  result  was,  of  course,  just  what  might  have  been  expect- 
ed :  there  was  a  frightful  burst  of  discord,  from  which  even  the 
idiot  himself  recoiled.  Surprised  and  disappointed,  he  made 
repeated  attempts  with  the  same  result,  and  because  he  could 
not  understand  the  reason  why  her  sounds  were  so  pleasant,  and 
his  so  disagreeable,  he  was  irritated  and  annoyed.  Agnes  tried 
in  her  childish  way  to  soothe  and  comfort  him ;  but  all  in  vain. 
At  last,  however,  she  thought  of  a  new  expedient,  and  ex- 
claimed : 

"Oh!  I  can  tell  you,  Joe, how  you  can  make  this  pretty  noise, 


28  CAMERON     HALL. 

as  you  call  it.     You  cannot  do  it  by  yourself,  but  you  can  help 
me.     Give  me  your  hand," 

She  led  him  round  the  organ,  and  made  the  bellows-blower 
show  him  how  to  work  the  bellows. 

"Now,  Joe," she  said,  "if  you  will  do  this,  we  can  make  music 
together. " 

At  first,  Joe  indignantly  refused  the  monT)tonous  labor ;  but 
Agnes's  persuasions  finally  overcame  him  and  he  consented  to  try 
it.  She  called  his  attention  to  the  fact  that  every  failure  to  per- 
form his  duty  was  as  fatal  to  the  music  as  if  she  h./rself  had 
ceased  to  play,  and  thus  she  convinced  him  that  he  was  indeed 
not  only  helping  to  make  the  music,  but  that  it  could  not  be 
made  without  him.  The  poor  idiot  was  delighted.  He  had 
found  something  to  do;  and  every  creature  in  the  universe  of 
God  requires  employment.  From  this  time  forth,  whenever 
Agnes  went  to  the  church  she  found  Joe  waiting  to  help  her 
"make  music."  He  knew  nothing  of  time:  the  morning  and 
evening  were  alike  to  him,  and  he  was  ignorant  of  hours;  but  the 
same  sort  of  instinct  which  recalls  the  lower  animals  home  at  cer- 
tain times,  made  the  idiot  repair  regularly  to  the  church  at  the 
hour  when  Agnes  might  be  expected  there.  Joe  too  enjoyed  it, 
or  rather  the  emotion  which  he  experienced  while  performing 
his  work  was  as  near  akin  to  pleasure  as  anything  that  he  was 
capable  of  feeling;  and  an  expression  that  seemed  as  it  were  a 
feeble  reflection  of  satisfaction  and  contentment  rested  upon  his 
face,  as,  hour  after  hour,  he  plied  his  monotonous  labor. 

Thus  together,  the  idiot  and  the  blind  child  made  their  music, 
and  their  respective  pleasures  were  a  faithful  exponent  of  their 
respective  afflictions.  The  child,  in  her  blindness,  sat  with  the 
veil  upon  her  outward  vision,  and  all  earthly  objects  shrouded  in 
impenetrable  darkness,  but  her  intellect  was  clear  and  undimmed, 
receiving  ideas  and  acquiring  knowledge,  independent  of  external 
organs  and  without  communication  with  the  external  world;  the 
idiot,  with  his  eyes  open,  but  his  intellect  blinded,  looked  all  day 
upon  the  beauties  and  wonders  of  the  world  around  him,  and  was 
yet  hopelessly,  totally  blind  ! 

Truly  there  is  a  blindness  deeper,  darker,  blacker,  than  that 
which  veils  the  eyes  I 

As  Agnes  grew  older,  the  feeling  of  compassion  with  which 
her  mother  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  her  gave  way  to  one 
of  grateful  satisfaction,  as  she  saw  the  child's  evident  enjoyment 
of  her  great  pleasure,  and  became  daily  more  and  more  con- 
vinced that  it  was  one  of  which  she  would  never  grow  weary. 
Besides  this,  Agnes  was  a  companion  for  the  mother,  long  before 
children  usually  are.     Her  blindness,  and  her  living,  as  it  were. 


CAMERON    HALL.  29 

constantly  in  the  atmosphere  of  those  ennobling  feelings  and 
aspirations  which  alone  can  find  expression  through  organ-music, 
seemed  to  lift  her,  in  some  respects,  immeasurably  out  of  child- 
hood; and  while  she  was  in  most  things  a  thorough  child,  yet, 
whenever  she  was  improvising  her  strange  music,  she  seemed  to 
her  mother  as  belonging  less  to  this  lower  world,  and  being  in 
some  way  mysteriously  linked  with  the  angels  rather  than  with 
the  dwellers  upon  this  lower  earth. 

Grace  often  found  her  ingenuity  greatly  taxed,  and  she  was 
sometimes  painfully  perplexed  in  her  efforts  to  teach  Agnes ;  but 
there  is  nothing  that  so  certainly  insures  success  as  interest  in 
our  work,  and  the  mother  was  herself  astonished  at  the  facility 
that  she  finally  acquired  in  imparting  knowledge  to  her.  As  is 
always  the  case  with  the  blind,  Agnes  had  a  very  retentive 
memory.  What  others  always  saw,  she  had  always  to  remember. 
The  veil  upon  her  eyes  shut  out  from  her  mind  the  distracting 
influence  of  external  things  and  threw  her  inwardly  upon  herself, 
so  that  she  pondered  her  mother's  teachings  until  they  became 
indelibly  impressed  upon  her  memory.  She  was  already  familiar 
with  much  of  the  church  service,  and  had  memorized  most  of  the 
collects.  Chanting  was  a  kind  of  music  that  she  specially  loved, 
and  her  mother  soon  found  that  in  order  to  secure  a  quick  and 
accurate  memory  of  the  Psalter,  she  only  needed  to  adapt  each 
portion  of  it  to  a  particular  chant. 

The  hour  before  the  commencement  of  school  in  the  morning, 
Grace  devoted  to  Agnes,  hearing  her  repeat  a  portion  of  the 
Psalter,  a  hymn,  and  her  catechism.  While  doing  this,  her  fin- 
gers were  not  idle,  but  were  busily  engaged  upon  some  article  of 
childish  dress,  which  was  none  the  less  carefully  elaborated,  even 
though  those  blind  eyes  could  never  see  its  beauty. 

She  was  thus  engaged  one  morning,  and  Agnes  stood  beside  her 
repeating  a  hymn.  It  was  one  that  she  often  said,  as  she  did 
now,  voluntarily.  Her  face,  usually  so  glad  and  bright,  wore  a 
solemn,  sad  expression,  as  she  repeated  the  lines : 

"  No  midnight  shade,  no  clouded  sun, 
But  sacred,  high,  eternal  noon." 

There  was  still  another  verse,  but  she  came  to  a  full  stop. 
The  mother  looked  up,  and  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  in  sympathy 
with  those  that  were  slowly  tracing  each  other  down  the  child's 
cheeks. 

Presently  she  wiped  them  away  and  said  : 

"Mother,  does  it  really  mean  that  there  is  no  midnight  in 
heaven,  but  that  it  is  always  day  there  ?" 

3* 


30  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Yes,  my  child,  there  is  a  verse  in  the  Bible  which  says  that 
there  shall  be  no  night  there." 

"That  must  be  a  pleasant  home,"  the  child  answered,  "a  very 
pleasant  home  for  those  wlio  are  not  blind;  but  oh,  mother!  it 
will  be  no  day  to  me,  for  the  darkness  and  the  light  are  both  alike 
to  me." 

For  an  instant  the  mother  did  not  reply.  Then  she  drew  her 
child  close  to  her  and  said  : 

"God  be  thanked,  my  darling,  it  will  not  be  so  there  !  Agnes, 
in  heaven  you  will  be  no  longer  blind,  and  that  eternal  day  will 
be  to  you  fuller,  brighter,  and  more  glorious,  because  you  have 
never  seen  even  the  glory  of  an  earthly  day  !" 

"  Not  blind  in  heaven  !  Oh,  mother,  do  you,  can  you  mean  that 
inheaven  I  will  see  too  ?" 

Oh,  the  rapture  that  lighted  up  that  little  blind  face  !  It 
seemed  as  if  a  beam  of  that  heavenly  day  had  penetrated  those 
sightless  eyes,  and  made  them  radiant  with  the  anticipation  of 
its  full,  unclouded  glory.  Never  was  there  a  revelation  of  heaven 
more  full  of  rapture  than  this  promise  of  eternal  light  to  a  sun- 
less life  1  Never  can  we,  who  know  what  the  blessed  sunshine  is, 
realize  the  thrill  with  which  that  blind  child  heard  of  a  cloudless 
day  ! 

There  was  a  pause,  and  presently  Agnes  asked  : 

"Mother,  didn't  you  tell  me  once  that  they  have  music  in 
heaven  ?     Is  it  organ-music,  mother  ?" 

"  The  Bible  tells  us,  Agnes,  that  the  angels  have  harps  in  their 
hands." 

"  I  wish  it  was  ihe  organ,  mother,"  she  answered  thoughtfully ; 
"  its  music  is  so  deep  that  I  don't  only  hear  it,  but  I  feel  it  too. 
I  wish  it  was  the  organ  !"  she  repeated  in  a  disappointed 
tone. 

"Never  mind,  my  child,"  said  Grace,  "you  will  be  perfectly 
satisfied  with  the  music  in  heaven.  It  is  an  eternal  song  with- 
out a  discord,  and  neither  the  ear  nor  the  heart  will  ever  grow 
weary  of  it." 

"  Eternal  day  !  eternal  music  !"  repeated  Agnes  thoughtfully. 
"  Oh,  what  a  happy  heaven  that  must  be  I" 

Nothing  more  was  said.  Agnes  was  satisfied,  for  the  mind 
of  the  blind  child-musician  could  grasp  no  fuller,  deeper,  or  more 
satisfying  thought  of  heaven  than  as  a  home  of  eternal  day  and 
eternal  song  ! 

As  Agnes  grew  more  skillful  in  the  use  of  the  organ,  it  became 
her  mother's  greatest  pleasure  to  listen  to  her  music.  In  the 
twilight  hour,  when  the  duties  of  the  day  were  done,  the  mother 
and  child  were  generally  together  in  the  church.     Agnes  needed 


CAMERON    HALL.  31 

no  light ;  and  there  was  something  in  the  subdued  and  quiet  hour, 
and  the  peaceful  shadow  that  rested  upon  the  holy  place,  that 
seemed  to  the  mother  beautifully  in  unison  with  the  music  which 
the  child  loved  most,  and  so  she  always  chose  this  time  to  hear 
Agnes's  music.  Sometimes,  while  listening,  Grace  would  dream 
pleasantly  of  the  melodies  of  heaven ;  sometimes  an  unexpected 
strain  would  recall  her  with  a  painful  thrill  back  to  this  earth  ; 
and  then  again,  as  she  looked  upon  her  child's  upturned  face, 
glowing  with  pleasure  in  the  possession  of  a  happiness  which 
nothing  could  take  from  her, — there,  in  God's  own  bouse,  the 
mother  would  thank  Him  that  He  had  given  her  so  much  to 
gladden  her  life's  long  night. 

It  was  late  one  evening  when  Grace  and  Agnes  were  in  the 
church.  She  had  been  playing  as  was  her  wont,  and  with -a 
sweetness  which  the  mother  fondly  thought  no  earthly  music 
could  surpass,  when  all  at  once  she  stopped.  Grace  was  accus- 
tomed to  these  abrupt  pauses,  and  for  some  moments  did  not 
look  round.  When  she  did,  there  was  something  in  Agnes's  ap- 
pearance and  attitude  which  almost  startled  her. 

She  sat  in  a  dreamy,  abstracted  state,  seemingly  unconscious 
where  she  was,  with  her  ear  strained  in  a  listening  attitude,  as 
if  she  heard  music,  and  with  a  fixed  expression  upon  her  face 
that  was  almost  painful,  as  if  some  powerful  thought  or  feeling 
were  struggling  for  utterance.  She  was  wondering  if  she  could 
interpret  by  music  one  thought  of  which  her  little  heart  was  full. 
Presently,  with  a  nervous  haste,  her  hand  arranged  the  stops, 
and  then  she  struck  the  chord.  She  shook  her  head  with  disap- 
pointment and  dissatisfaction,  and  then  she  made  a  different  com- 
bination. This  time  the  chord  responded  to  her  feeling,  and  she 
went  on.  A  deep  swelling  tide  of  harmony  rose  and  fell,  ebbed 
and  flowed,  until  the  whole  air  was  tremulous  with  sweetest 
music.  It  was  strange  as  it  was  beautiful ;  a  commingling  of  a 
penitential  wail  with  a  song  of  praise,  with  the  fervor  and  sweet- 
ness of  the  one  without  its  sadness,  and  the  richness  and  fullness 
of  the  other  without  its  exultation.  Agnes  was  now  giving  ut- 
terance to  feelings  for  which  she  knew  no  words,  but  her  music 
had  evidently  found  for  them  a  voice  and  expression  which  satis- 
fied her  heart.  Grace  listened  and  looked  in  silent  wonder. 
The  child's  appearance  and  attitude  were  as  full  of  expression 
as  was  her  strange  music;  her  face  was  lighted  up,  and  for 
several  moments  after  the  strain  had  ceased,  it  still  glowed  with 
pleasure,  as  if  the  melody  yet  lingered  in  her  heart.  Presently 
Grace  asked  : 

"What  is  that,  my  daughter?" 

"  That,  mother,"  she  replied,  "  is  the  Song  of  the  Redeemed, 


82  CAMERON    HALL. 

that  you  were  reading  about  this  morning.     That  is  something 
like  the  song  that  I  expect  to  sing  in  heaven." 

"  Do  you  think,  my  daughter,  that  it  is  joyous,  rapturous 
enough,  for  the  Song  of  the  P^edeemed  ?  Just  think  how  very 
happy  the  Redeemed  must  be  to  find  themselves  safe  in  a  home 
where  there  is  no  more  trouble,  or  sorrow,  or  death,  or  sin." 

"  Yes,  mother,  but  if  they  feel  in  heaven  as  I  do  now,  they  will 
sing  the  sweetest  but  not  the  loudest  song  when  they  are  the  hap- 
piest. You  know  when  my  heart  feels  the  most,  I  don't  play  the 
loudest  music ;  and  I  know  that  in  heaven,  where  I  won't  be  blind, 
and  where  I  can  sing,  even  with  the  angels,  without  making  dis- 
cord,— oh !  I  know  that  I  will  be  too  happy  there  to  sing  a  loud 
song." 

• "  But,  Agues,  the  Bible  expressly  says  that  the  Song  of  the  Re- 
deemed is  a  very  loud  song,  even  'as  the  voice  of  many  waters 
and  as  the  voice  of  a  great  thunder.'" 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  that  is  because  so  many  sing  it.  Isn't  it 
strange,"  she  added  dreamily,  as  if  she  were  thinking  aloud, 
"  that  we  will  all  sing  our  own  song  at  the  same  time,  and  yet 
there  won't  be  any  discord  1  How  grand,  how  beautiful  it 
will  be  !" 

Grace  made  no  reply,  and  they  sat  there  in  the  silence  of  the 
deepening  twilight  all  alone,  as  they  thought,  in  the  house  of  God. 
But  another  had  been  a  listener  and  a  witness,  and  had  they  been 
less  occupied  with  their  own  thoughts,  the  acute  ear  of  Agnes 
would  have  detected  an  approaching  footstep,  and  Grace  would 
have  seen  standing  not  far  from  her  a  stranger,  leaning  upon  his 
cane,  with  face  and  figure  immovable  as  a  statue.  Before  he  had 
awakened  from  the  spell  in  which  the  music  had  bound  him,  the 
child's  strange,  words  had  fallen  upon  his  ear,  and  he  was  first 
aroused  from  his  reverie  by  a  suppressed  scream,  as  Grace,  lead- 
ing her  child  carefully  through  the  gathering  darkness,  came  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly  upon  him.  Without  a  word  of  explana- 
tion or  apology,  he  made  way  for  them,  and  Grace,  dragging 
Agnes  along,  hastened  out  of  the  church.  When  she  found  her. 
self  in  the  street,  it  was  already  quite  dark,  and  she  hurried 
home  much  more  rapidly  than  was  consistent  with  Agnes's  com- 
fort. 

At  last  Agnes  said,  breathlessly : 

"Mother,  I  am  so  tired.     Plea'se  don't  go  so  fast." 

Grace  stopped  a  moment  for  Agnes  to  take  breath,  and  the 
stranger,  who  was  close  behind,  now  overtaking  her,  said  respect- 
fully : 

"  I  owe  you  an  apology,  madam,  first  for  intruding  upon  your 
privacy,  and  afterward  for  my  seeming  rudeness.     I  am  a  dear 


CAMERON    HALL.  83 

lover  of  music,  and  in  passing  along  tlie  street  was  attracted  by 
the  sound  of  the  organ,  touched,  as  I  thought,  by  no  unskillful 
hand  ;  and,  unconscious  of  intrusion,  I  entered  the  church.  What 
I  did  after  I  got  there  I  do  not  know.  Everything  seems  like  a 
dream  from  which  your  exclamation,  as  you  passed,  first  awakened 
me.  I  should  have  apologized  then,  if  I  had  recovered  myself  in 
time,  and  I  have  followed  you  now,  hoping  for  an  opportunity  to 
do  so." 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  a  mother  could  reject  such  an 
apology  as  this,  even  when  offered  by  a  less  attractive  stranger; 
but  it  was  now  tendered  so  respectfully,  and  with  so  much  gen- 
tleness of  manner,  that  Grace  felt  no  hesitation  in  accepting  the 
old  gentleman's  explanation.  She  was  now  obliged  to  walk  more 
slowly,  for  Agnes  was  thoroughly  tired,  and  the  stranger  accom- 
panied them  along  the  street. 

Presently  she  asked  : 

"  Who  is  this,  mother  ?  I  never  heard  his  voice  before,  and  I 
like  it;  it  is  pleasant." 

"  He  is  a  stranger,  my  daughter,  who  came  into  the  church  to 
hear  your  music." 

"A  stranger  now,  my  little  girl,"  said  he,  "  but  I  do  not  in- 
tend to  be  so  long.  I  love  little  children  very  much,  and  I 
love  music  as  well,  and  to  find  both  combined  in  one,  will  surely 
win  my  heart.  If  you  will  let  me,  I  will  be  your  friend, — will 
you  ?" 

'*  Certainly,  sir,"  she  replied.     "  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  My  name  is  Uncle  John." 

"Uncle  John  what?" 

"  Uncle  John,"  he  said :  " nothing  more.  That  is  name  enough, 
isn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and  must  everybody  call  you  Uncle  John  ?" 

"  You  must ;  and  now,  what  must  I  call  you  ?" 

"  My  name,  sir,  is  Agnes  Merton ;  but  everybody  calls  me  only 
little  blind  Agnes." 

"Blind!"  exclaimed  the  stranger;  "you  blind  I  Surely  that 
cannot  be,"  he  added,  looking  at  Grace. 

"  It  is  true,  sir,"  she  answered  ;  "she  is  blind." 

"  How  then  was  it  possible  to  teach  her  to  play  so  beautifully, 
at  her  age  ?" 

"  She  has  never  had  an  hour's  instruction  in  her  life.  It  is  a 
natural  gift,  and  to  her  an  invaluable  one  ;  for  with  her  love  of 
harmony  and  her  power  to  produce  it,  her  life  is  rendered  not 
only  tolerable  but  positively  happy,  and  while  she  is  at  the  organ 
she  never  remembers  that  she  is  blind." 

"A  blind-child-musician  !"  repeated  Uncle  John,  slowly,  and 


34  CAMERON    HALL. 

at  intervals.  Then  he  stooped  down  and  put  both  his  arms 
around  her,  and  kissed  her  almost  reverently,  as  he  said : 

"  How  I  shall  love  this  child  I" 

The  mother's  heart  could  not  but  open  to  the  stranger  who 
thus  looked  upon  her  child ;  and  when  Uncle  Johu  proposed  to 
lead  Agnes,  and  she  herself  did  not  object,  Grace  yielded  the 
little  hand  to  him,  and  he  led  her  carefully  home. 

When  they  reached  the  gate,  Agnes  said : 

"Come  in,  Uncle  John,  I  have  not  seen  you  yet." 

He  did  not  understand  what  she  meant,  but  he  went  in  with 
her  and  was  soon  seated  in  their  little  parlor.  Grace  went  to  get 
candles,  but  Agnes  did  not  have  to  wait  for  the  light  to  "see" 
Uncle  John.  As  soon  as  he  was  seated,  she  went  up  to  him  and 
passed  her  hand  gently  through  his  hair,  traced  his  features  one 
by  one,  and  paused  after  each,  as  if  trying  to  picture  it  in  her 
mind.  She  touched  his  hand,  felt  the  size  of  his  arm,  and  meas- 
ured its  length  from  the  shoulder  to  the  end  of  the  fingers.  Then 
she  asked  him  to  stand  up,  and  her  hand  glided  rapidly  from  the 
crown  of  his  head  to  his  feet. 

"  You  are  tall,  Uncle  John,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  Agnes,  I  am  quite  a  tall  man.  My  eyes  are  dark  hazel, 
my  hair  is  quite  gray,  and " 

He  checked  himself  and  murmured  sadly : 

"  What  is  the  use  of  this  ?  colors  are  all  alike  to  her  I" 

"  What  did  you  say,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"  Nothing,  child,  except  that  if  you  cannot  see  me,  I  intend 
that  you  shall  at  least  learn  to  love  me.  And  will  you  let  me 
come  sometimes  to  the  church  and  listen  to  your  music  ?  It  would 
be  a  great  pleasure,"  he  added,  turning  to  Grace,  who  now  came 
in,  "if  it  would  not  be  interfering." 

Agnes  hastened  to  reply  : 

"Oh  no.  Uncle  John,  it  will  not  interrupt  me  in  the  least,  and 
if  you  would  like  to  listen  I  would  rather  you  should  come  than 
not.  I  love  the  organ  so  much  myself  that  I  like  all  my  friends 
to  enjoy  it  too." 

Not  the  least  attractive  characteristic  of  the  child-musician 
was  her  unfeigned  enjoyment  of  her  own  music.  She  loved  it  for 
itself,  and  in  her  simplicity  was  quite  unconscious  that  it  could 
excite  either  wonder  or  commendation.  She  never  thought  of 
herself  when  she  was  playing,  any  more  than  she  did  when  she 
was  talking;  in  the  one  case  she  enjoyed  the  expression  of  her 
thoughts  and  feelings  by  words,  and  in  the  other  by  music,  and 
she  was  not  yet  old  enough  to  know  that  one  was  any  rarer  gift 
than  the  other;  she  only  knew  which  gave  her  most  pleasure. 

To  Uncle  John's  request  Grace  made  no  reply.    She  could  not 


CAMERON    HALL.  35 

have  refused  it,  and  yet,  in  granting  it,  she  felt  that  she  would  be 
giving  up  her  greatest  pleasure.  She  had  greatly  valued  the 
freedom  with  which,  there  alone  in  the  church,  she  was  privileged 
to  indulge  feelings  which  elsewhere,  and  at  all  other  times,  were 
kept  under  restraint.  That  music  always  spoke  to  her  heart,  and 
she  was  accustomed  to  yield  herself  entirely  to  its  influence,  un- 
checked by  the  presence  of  a  human  being,  for  the  blind  child  was 
of  course  no  restraint.  Now  that  her  privacy  was  liable  at  any 
moment  to  be  intruded  upon,  her  twilight  hour  with  Agnes  would 
no  longer  be  the  goal  of  her  thoughts  all  through  the  day,  and  for 
a  moment  Grace  was  selfish  enough  almost  to  regret  that  her  child 
had  made  a  new  friend. 

After  he  was  gone,  Agnes  said: 

"  Mother,  do  you  love  Uncle  John  very  much  ?" 

"  No,  my  daughter,  not  yet.  I  expect,  however,  soon  to  like 
him  extremely,  if,  for  no  other  reason,  because  I  see  that  he  is 
going  to  love  you " 

"  I  love  him  already,  mother,  and  am  so  glad  that  he  loves 
music,  because  I  can  play  for  him.  What  is  the  reason  that  we 
never  knew  him  before  ?" 

"Because  he  has  only  lately  come  to  Hopedale.  I  have  seen 
him  several  times  at  church  ;  but  he  is  a  stranger  here,  and  I  don't 
think  anybody  knows  him  yet." 

"  Is  he  going  to  live  here,  mother  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  All  that  I  know  about  him  is  what  he 
told  us  of  himself  as  we  came  home,  and  you  heard  that." 

"  Yes,  but  that  is  very  little  to  know  about  anybody  that  you 
love.  The  next  time  he  comes  I  will  ask  him  to  tell  me  all  about 
himself,  and  I  will  tell  him  all  about  ourselves ;  that  will  be  fair, 
won't  it,  mother  ?" 

Grace  was  thankful  that  the  child  could  not  see  in  her  face 
the  effect  of  her  unconscious  words.  She  thought  how  little 
Agues  knew  of  her  own  or  her  mother's  history,  but  she  only 
said  in  reply : 

•*  I  think,  my  daughter,  that  it  will  be  better  to  wait  until 
Uncle  John  chooses  to  tell  us  his  history.  Perhaps  he  may  not 
like  10  talk  about  it." 

"  Why,  mother  ?  what  objection  could  he  possibly  have  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Agnes ;  perhaps  he  may  have  had  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  in  his  life,  and  may  not  like  to  talk  about  it  to 
strangers." 

"  But,  mother,  we  are  not  strangers,"  persisted  Agnes.  "Don't 
you  know  he  said  himself  that  we  are  friends,  and  of  course  if 
we  are  friends,  he  would  rather  tell  us  all  about  himself  than 
not  I" 


36  CAMERON    HALL. 

Her  heart  had  evidently  been  already  won  by  the  gentle  kind- 
ness of  the  stranger,  and  with  the  freedom  of  childhood,  she 
wanted  at  once  to  make  herself  acquainted  with  his  past  life. 
She  could  not  understand  or  appreciate  her  mother's  unwilling- 
ness to  question  him  herself,  but  to  prevent  her  from  doing  so, 
seemed  to  Agnes  a  most  unreasonable  restriction.  She  could 
not  help  showing  her  disappointment,  when  her  mother  said : 

"Agnes,  your  mother  knows  what  is  right  and  proper  much 
better  than  you  do,  and  you  must  not  ask  Uncle  John  anything 
of  his  past  life  or  history.  I  do  not  know  that  he  would  have 
any  objection  to  telling  you,  but  he  might  have,  and  you  must 
not  do  it." 

The  tone  was  gentle,  but  it  was  firm  and  positive ;  and  how- 
ever disappointed  Agnes  might  be,  and  however  unreasonable 
might  seem  the  command,  yet  she  dared  not  disobey  it.  The 
next  time  that  Uncle  John  came,  the  temptation  to  gratify  her 
curiosity  was  strong,  and  nothing  but  the  fear  of  her  mother's 
serious  displeasure  prevented  her  from  asking  the  forbidden  ques- 
tion; but  afterward,  she  soon  forgot  in  her  pleasant  and  unre- 
strained intercourse  w4th  him  that  she  had  not  always  known  and 
loved  him. 

In  the  course  of  months  he  became  a  regular  and  constant 
visitor  at  the  cottage,  and  after  awhile  Grace  became  so  accus- 
tomed to  his  presence  when  Agnes  was  at  the  organ,  that  she  did 
not  object  to  it.  Indeed,  he  was  scarcely  a  restraint,  for  he  seemed 
so  absorbed  in  the  music,  or  else  in  some  associations  and  memo- 
ries that  it  might  have  awakened,  that  he  was  oblivious  to  things 
around  him. 

Uncle  John  was  a  great  lover  of  children,  and  was  soon  claimed 
by  the  children  of  Hopedale  as  their  special  property.  It  was 
no  uncommon  sight  to  see  him  walking  along  the  street  with  a 
child  holding  each  hand  and  one  or  two  others  clinging  to  the 
skirts  of  his  coat,  all  chattering  together,  and  he  apparently  as 
much  interested  and  as  much  of  a  child  as  any  of  them.  If  he 
happened  to  be  passing  by  the  school  at  recess,  the  sight  of  him 
was  sure  to  awaken  a  shout  of  entreaty  from  dozens  of  little 
voices  that  he  would  come  in  and  have  "a  real  nice  play,"  an 
invitation  which  he  rarely  refused,  not  only  because  he  liked  to 
make  them  happy,  but  because  he  really  enjoyed  their  society, 
for  he  was  accustomed  to  say  that  he  felt  himself  a  better  man 
for  hours,  after  he  had  been  in  the  atmosphere  of  childhood.  It 
w^as  at  the  school  that  he  became  acquainted  with  Julia  and 
Eva  Cameron,  both  of  whom  soon  found  a  soft  spot  in  old  Uncle 
John's  heart.  The  "little  woman,"  timid  almost  to  shyness  with 
strangers,  was  very  soon  won  over,  by  some  unaccountable  mag- 


CAMERON    HALL.  37 

netism,  to  perfect  freedom  and  unreserve  with  him;  while  the 
little  Eva,  the  sunbeam,  was,  if  possible,  brighter  and  happier 
when  she  was  holding  his  hand  or  sitting  in  his  kp  listening  to 
a  story. 

But  while  he  seemed  actually  to  reverence  childhood  and  to 
love  all  children,  yet  for  the  blind  child  he  had  a  peculiarly  ten- 
der affection.  His  kind  heart  was  touched  with  a  feeling  of  sor- 
row and  sympathy  for  her  infirmity,  and  was,  at  the  same  time, 
won  by  her  patience  and  cheerfulness.  There  was  no  repining 
or  complaining  in  her  childish  nature.  She  accepted  whatever 
pleasure  her  darkened  life  was  susceptible  of,  and  did  not  murmur 
that  she  could  not  have  more.  And  while  there  was  a  jealousy 
and  rivalry  among  the  other  children  as  to  whom  Uncle  John 
loved  best,  they  all  gave  way  to  the  blind  child.  She  was  the 
acknowledged  favorite,  and  none  disputed  her  right  or  envied 
her  supremacy.  Uncle  John  found  the  friendship  of  childhood 
the  best  passport  of  recommendation  to  those  of  his  own  age, 
and  the  hearts  of  parents  soon  opened  to  the  stranger  who  had 
found  his  way  at  once  to  those  of  the  children ;  it  wa,s  not  very 
long  before  he  seemed  to  be  as  well  known  and  as  mu"eh  beloved 
in  Hopedale  as  if  he  had  always  lived  there,  and  the  old  and  the 
young  alike  forgot  that  Uncle  John  had  ever  been  a  stranger. 

Uncle  John  did  not,  however,  at  once  become  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Cameron.  Grace  Merton  had^iot  misjudged  him,  when  she 
supposed  that  there  was  a  considerable  leaven  of  the  aristocratic 
element  lurking  in  his  nature  ;  she  had  only  judged  him  wrong- 
fully, when  she  imagined  that  it  had  attained  undue  proportions. 
He  had  a  certain  pride  of  birth  and  name,  and  if  it  did  occa- 
sionally tempt  him  to  exaggerate  their  importance  and  value,  yet 
it  was  prevented  from  becoming  haughtiness  or  offensive  self- 
conceit  by  that  strict  justice  which  never  allowed  him  to  forget 
or  disregard  the  claims  of  others.  And  while  some  might  have 
thought  that  Mr.  Cameron  laid  too  much  stress  upon  birth  and 
station,  yet  none  could  deny  that  he  was  as  ready  as  any  other 
man  to  see  and  acknowledge  merit,  and  to  give  it  the  preference 
when  the  two  came  in  conflict.  It  was  owing  perhaps  to  these 
feelings  and  opinions  of  Mr.  Cameron  that  the  Hall  was  among 
the  last  houses  where  Uncle  John  was  received  upon  intimate 
terms.  He  was  a  stranger,  none  knew  whence  he  came  or  who  he 
was,  and  Mr.  Cameron  did  not  seek  him  out.  Like  many  others, 
he  too  only  learned  to  know  him  through  his  children,  and  it  was 
at  last  at  the  instigation  of  his  "little  woman"  that  he  became 
acquainted  with  him.  It  seemed  so  remarkable  to  her  father  that 
the  timid,  shrinking  little  Julia  could  be  so  soon  won,  and  Uncle 
John  appeared  to  have  taken  such  firm,  fast  hold  upon  her  heart, 

4 


38  CAMERON    HALL. 

that  Mr.  Cameron  felt  persuaded  that  there  must  be  something 
in  his  character  to  admire  and  respect.  Nor  did  he  find  himself 
mistaken  ;  the  same  simplicity  and  gentleness  and  warmth  of  heart 
that  had  attracted  the  children,  awakened  Mr.  Cameron's  esteem 
and  confidence.  The  truth  was,  that  Uncle  John  was  a  remark- 
able exemplification  of  the  truth,  that  a  man  may  have  much  in 
common  with  a  child  without  losing  one  atom  of  his  manhood; 
that  the  gentleness,  the  humility,  and  the  kindly  nature  which 
are  so  beautiful  in  childhood,  are  by  no  means  inconsistent  with 
the  firmness,  the  energy,  the  self-reliance  which  become  the  man; 
and  that  he  who  can  be  the  companion,  the  associate,  the  friend 
of  a  child,  is  not  therefore  unfit  to  be  the  companion,  the  asso- 
ciate, the  friend  of  a  man.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  after  awhile, 
that  the  friend  of  the  little  Julia,  Walter,  and  Eva  became  no 
less  the  friend  of  their  father,  no  less  welcome  to  the  head  of  the 
family  than  he  was  to  the  little  folks,  who  grouped  themselves 
around  him,  generally  coming  in  for  a  full  share  of  his  conversa- 
tion and  attention,  and  yet  quite  content  to  hold  his  hand  or  his 
coat  in  silence  and  listen,  when  told  by  their  father  to  sit  still  and 
not  to  interrupt  the  conversation. 

Uncle  John  had  been  a  long  time  in  Hopedale  before  he  learned 
that  Grace  Merton  had  not  always  lived  there,  and  that  there  was 
a  painful  mystery  thrown  over  the  early  part  of  her  life.  His  kind 
heart  had  been  early  drawn  toward  the  mother  of  the  blind  child, 
and  what  was,  at  first,  only  sympathy,  became  afterward  respect 
and  admiration  for  her  uncomplaining  patience  and  quiet  serenity. 
He  saw  that  she  was  sad,  but  thought  that  there  was  quite  enough 
to  make  her  so  in  the  object  of  her  love  and  solicitude,  and  in  the 
poverty  which  rendered  necessary  an  amount  of  labor  exceeding 
her  strength ;  but  when  he  learned  that  there  was  some  cause  of 
sorrow  underlying  and  even  exceeding  this,  his  only  reply  was : 

"  Poor  Grace  I  if  she  has  more  than  that  blind  child  upon  her 
heart,  it  must  be  heavy  indeed  !" 

It  was  from  Mr.  Cameron  that  he  first  heard  the  circumstances 
attending  Mrs.  Merton's  arrival  in  Hopedale.  Mr.  Cameron  had 
frankly  told  him  his  own  misgivings,  but  had  also  added  that  his 
subsequent  acquaintance  with  her,  and  knowledge  of  her  char- 
acter, had  silenced  them  all. 

"  It  cannot  be  her  fault,"  he  said  thoughtfully ;  "and  yet  I  wish, 
for  her  sake,  that  the  mystery  could  be  cleared  up." 

"  Her  fault  I"  repeated  Uncle  John,  in  surprise;  "never,  sir, 
never  !  There  is  sorrow  in  her  face,  but  not  remorse ;  you  may 
read  pain  there,  but  not  guilt.    No,  sir,  not  her  fault!" 

The  subject  dropped ;  it  was  the  first  and  last  time  that  either 
of  them  ever  alluded  to  Grace  Merton's  early  life. 


CAMERON    HALL.  39 


CHAPTER  lY. 

As  at  Cameron  Hall,  so  also  at  the  cottage,  Uncle  John  now 
came  and  went  at  his  pleasure,  with  only  one  stipulation,,  that  he 
should  not  interrupt  the  hours  devoted  to  Agnes's  instruction ;  and 
as  Grace  was  in  school  in  the  morning  and  teaching  Agnes  in  the 
afternoon,  his  visits  were  limited  to  the  evening,  and  he  generally 
came  at  tea-time  or  immediately  afterward. 

One  evening,  about  twilight,  he  came  in  the  midst  of  a  pouring 
rain.  Grace  was  telling  Agnes  fairy  tales,  a  poor  compensation, 
she  said,  for  her  usual  enjoyment  at  that  hour. 

Uncle  John  sat  down,  and  drawing  her  up  to  him,  said 
kindly : 

''  You  have  been  disappointed  very  often  lately,  my  daughter, 
in  going  to  the  church.  So  much  rain  during  the  last  fortnight 
has  been  unfortunate  for  you,  hasn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  there  have  been  several  days  lately  that  I  have  not 
touched  the  organ  at  all,  and  then  I  always  feel  lonely." 

"You  will  find,  my  child,"  said  her  mother,  "that  the  winter 
weather,  now  approaching,  will  be  a  much  greater  interruption 
than  the  occasional  summer  rains  have  been.  It  is  so  cold  in  the 
church  that  I  cannot  permit  you  to  go  there  this  winter." 

"  Oh,  mother !  why  not  ?  I  went  there  a  great  deal  last 
winter." 

"  Yes,  Agnes,  I  yielded  to  you  then,  when  my  judgment  told 
me  that  it  was  wrong,  and  the  consequence  was,  that  we  both 
suffered  from  it.  The  doctor  says  that  I  must  never  let  you  do 
it  again.  I  am  sorry,  my  child,  as  much  so  as  you  are,  for  I  love 
your  music  almost  as  much  as  you  do;  but  1  must  do  what  is 
right." 

Agnes's  cheerfulness  was  all  gone  now.  That  organ  had  be- 
come as  much  a  part  of  her  daily  life  as  the  air  that  she  breathed, 
and  child  that  she  was,  she  felt  not  only  that  she  could  not  be 
happy  without  it,  but  that  she  could  not  live  without  it. 

The  mother  saw  the  pain  that  she  inflicted,  and  so  did  Uncle 
John,  who  said  : 

"  My  daughter,  how  would  you  like  to  have  an  organ  here 
in  the  house,  that  you  could  play  on  whenever  you  pleased,  in 
winter  and  summer,  in  rain  and  sunshine  ?" 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much.  Uncle  John,  if  it  was  a  great  big 
organ  like  the  one  in  the  church,  with  just  as  many  stops,  and 


40  CAMERON    HALL. 

with  that  beautiful,  deep  pedal  bass;  but  not  without.  Mother 
once  promised  that  when  she  had  money  enough  she  would  buy 
me  a  little  one,  like  that  Mr.  Derby  has  in  his  parlor;  but  I  don't 
want  that.  I  can't  tell  half  that  I  feel  on  that.  No,  I  love  the 
church  organ,  and  am  willing  to  go  through  the  rain  or  the  cold 
to  play  on  it.  I  was  not  cold  a  single  time  last  winter  while  I 
was  there." 

"  Well,  suppose  that  you  could  have  one  here  at  home  just  as 
large  as  that ;  how  would  you  like  it  ?" 

"How  would  I  like  it  I"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh,  Uncle  John, 
I  would  rather  have  it  than  anything,  yes,  than  everything  in  the 
world  besides  !" 

Grace  looked  inquiringly  at  Uncle  John,  who  said  : 

"In  which  room,  mother,  shall  we  put  Agnes's  organ?" 

"You  are  not  in  earnest.  Uncle  John,"  she  said;  and  then 
added,  deprecatingly  :  "I  am  sorry  that  you  have  put  that  notion 
into  her  head,  for  she  thinks  that  you  are  in  earnest,  and  she  is 
not  accustomed  to  disappointment." 

"Earnest  !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  never  was  more  in  earnest  in 
my  life.  If  you  will  give  her  a  place  to  put  it,  I  promise  that 
she  shall  have  an  organ  with  four  more  stops  than  the  one  in  the 
church,  and  just  as  many  pedals." 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John,  what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do  to  thank 
you?"  she  exclaimed,  rapturously.  "When  shall  I  have  it? 
Mother,  where  will  you  put  it  ?" 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Grace,  "do  you  know  what  you  have 
promised  ?  Have  you  any  idea  of  the  expense  of  such  an  in- 
strument ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  about  it,"  he  answered  ;  "  but  I  am  willing  to 
buy  it  to  make  her  as  happy  as  she  will  be." 

"  But,  Uncle  John,  that  is  too  expensive  a  present  for  you  to 
give  Agnes.     I  am  afraid " 

"  That  you  cannot  afiford  it,"  he  said,  finishing  her  sentence ; 
"but  that  is  my  look-out,  not  yours.  Don't  you  think,  Agnes, 
that  your  mother  might  allow  me  to  spend  my  money  as  I 
please  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  indeed  I  do,  especially  if  you  want  to  buy  an  organ. 
When  shall  I  have  it — next  week  ?" 

"  Not  quite  so  soon  as  that,  my  daughter,  for  I  will  have  to 
write  for  it,  and  then,  even  if  it  is  already  made,  it  will  have  to 
be  boxed  up  and  sent  out.  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  have 
to  wait  several  weeks,  and  perhaps  longer.  But  your  mother 
has  not  yet  said  where  it  is  to  stand." 

"  There  is  no  other  place  for  it,"  she  replied,  "  except  this  room  ; 
but  I  am  very  willing  to  give  up  my  parlor  to  Agnes's  organ." 


CAMERON    HALL.  41 

"  This  house  is  so  small,  Agnes,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  that  it 
will  not  sound  so  well  here  as  in  the  large  church." 

"  Yes,  sir,  to  me  it  will,  for  I  will  be  just  as  near  it  in  one  place 
as  in  the  other." 

"  That  is  true,"  he  replied ;  "  and  as  it  is  for  your  own  special 
use,  if  you  are  satisfied,  the  rest  of  us  ought  to  be.  I  will  write 
and  order  it  this  very  night.  I  wish  that  I  could  have  it  made 
in  Germany,  where  they  make  such  sweet,  rich-toned  instruments. 
Oh,  Agnes,  wiiat  exquisite  pleasure  it  would  give  you  to  hear 
some  of  the  organs  in  the  Old  Country,  played  by  those  wonder- 
ful musicians  !" 

But  Agnes  cared  not  at  that  moment  to  hear  any  musician  in 
the  world.  She  was  so  delighted  at  the  idea  of  being  the  sole 
possessor  of  a  large  organ,  that  all  other  earthly  pleasures  seemed 
to  sink  into  insignificance. 

She  sat  in  silence  a  little  while,  and  then  said,  thought- 
fully : 

"  Uncle  John,  you  must  love  me  a  great  deal ;  what  makes 
you, — because  I  am  blind  ?" 

"  No,  my  daughter,  I  feel  sorry  for  you  because  you  are  blind; 
but  I  should  not  love  you  for  that  alone." 

"Well,  what  is  the  reason,  then  ?" 

*'  Because  you  are  a  lovable  child.  You  are  gentle,  affection- 
ate, and  obedient,  and  you  bear  your  blindness  cheerfully  and 
patiently." 

"  Is  that  all,  Uncle  John  ?" 

'•  No,  Agnes,  not  all,"  he  answered  thoughtfully,  almost 
sadly. 

"  Well,  tell  me  the  rest,"  she  persisted. 

"Suppose  I  tell  you  a  tale,  daughter,"  he  said,  "would 
you  like  it  ?" 

"  Yery  much,  sir.  Mother  was  telling  me  one  when  you  came 
in.     I  like  tales  next  to  music." 

He  seated  her  in  his  lap,  and  taking  her  hand,  said  : 

"A  great  many  years  ago,  probably  before  your  mother  was 
born,  there  lived  a  warm-hearted  affectionate  youth,  full  of  life, 
and  hope,  and  happiness.  He  loved  devotedly  a  young  lady,  who 
had  promised  to  be  his  wife,  and  whose  sincerity  and  truthfulness 
he  never  doubted.  She  had  told  him  that  she  would  marry  him 
as  soon  as  he  left  college;  and  when  the  time  was  near  at  hand, 
and  his  heart  was  brimful  of  joy,  he  received  a  letter  from  a 
friend,  saying  that  she  had  suddenly  and  most  unexpectedly  mar- 
ried another  man,  and  gone  far  away  to  a  distant  country.  It 
was  a  cruel  blow,  and  he  felt  not  only  distressed,  but  bitter  too. 

He  had  trusted  and  believed  her,  and  he  thought  that  if  she 

4* 


42  CAMERON    HALL. 

could  so  deceive  him,  that  there  could  be  no  truth  or  honesty  in 
anybody  else,  and  so  he  grew  morose  and  discontented.  Once 
he  loved  and  trusted  everybody,  but  now  he  hated  all  the  world. 
He  wanted  no  more  friends,  for  he  was  afraid  that  as  soon  as  he 
began  to  love  them,  they  would  deceive  and  disappoint  him  too. 
He  wanted  to  get  as  far  as  possible  from  the  scene  of  his  wretch- 
edness, and  so  he  went  over  the  ocean  to  a  far  distant  land.  For 
years  he  wandered  about  without  any  home,  without  any  friends. 
He  would  not  return  to  his  old  home,  because  everything  there 
would  remind  him  painfully  of  his  former  happiness ;  and  some- 
times he  felt  so  bitter  that  he  longed  for  some  corner  of  the 
world  where  nobody  lived,  and  where  he  might  spend  the  rest  of 
his  life  all  alone.  He  was  sadly  changed  from  what  he  had  been 
as  a  boy ;  and  in  the  wretched,  embittered  man,  nobody  could  have 
recognized  the  bright,  cheerful,  kind-hearted  youth.  At  last,  in 
his  wanderings,  he  went  to  a  large  city  in  South  America,  and 
stayed  there  some  time ;  but  after  awhile  he  grew  tired  there  and 
wanted  to  go  somewhere  else.  He  was  restless  now,  and  could 
not  stay  very  long  in  one  place.  But  he  did  not  know  where 
else  to  go.  He  had  been  to  Europe  and  did  not  care  to  go  back 
so  soon ;  and  one  day,  while  trying  to  think  of  some  place  where 
he  would  like  to  go,  he  suddenly  determined  to  go  back  to  his 
old  home.  Several  years  had  passed  since  he  left  there ;  he  had 
found  that  traveling  about  and  living  among  strangers  could  not 
make  him  forget  his  misery,  and  he  thought  that  perhaps  the  old 
home  where  he  had  played  as  a  boy,  and  the  companions  of  his 
boyhood,  might,  after  all,  comfort  him  more  than  anything  else. 
At  any  rate,  he  determined  to  try  it,  and  so  he  got  on  board  a 
ship  to  sail  home.  It  was  not  a  steamship,  and  it  took  a  long 
time  to  make  the  voyage.  There  were  but  few  passengers,  and 
these  he  avoided.  He  used  to  go  and  sit  all  day  long  on  the 
deck  and  watch  the  waves,  and  think  bitterly  what  a  happy  man 
he  might  have  been,  and  how  wretched  his  life  had  been  made  by 
one  single  act  of  another. 

"  There  was  on  the  ship  a  little  child  about  three  years  old, 
whom  he  first  noticed  playing  about  the  deck,  full  of  life  and  hap- 
piness. He  did  not  speak  to  her,  but  sometimes  he  found  him- 
self watching  her  instead  of  looking  out  upon  the  ocean ;  and, 
without  knowing  it,  he  became  interested  in  her,  and  occasionally 
forgot  himself  and  his  troubles  in  seeing  her  brightness  and  hap- 
piness. She  was  not  afraid  of  strangers,  and,  after  some  days, 
she  became  so  much  accustomed  to  his  presence  in  the  same  spot, 
that  she  played  around  the  place  where  he  was  sitting,  just  as 
she  would  have  done  if  he  had  not  been  there.  One  day,  as  she 
passed  by,  he  held  out  his  hand  to  her  without  saying  a  word. 


CAMERON    HALL.  43 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  and  then 
came  up  fearlessly  and  laid  her  little  hand  in  his.  This  was  their 
introduction,  and  from  that  moment  they  were  friends.  Every 
day  afterward  she  came  regularly  to  him,  and  while  he  was  try- 
ing to  entertain  and  amuse  her,  he  became  interested  himself,  and 
at  last  he  began  really  to  love  the  little  child.  When  he  first 
found  out  that  he  was  beginning  to  love  her,  he  tried  hard  not  to 
do  it,  for  he  had  made  a  foolish  vow  that  he  would  never  again 
love  anybody  in  the  world ;  but  this  little  child  was  so  sweet  and 
innocent  that  he  could  not  help  it,  and  then,  too,  he  comforted 
himself  with  the  thought  that  his  little  child-friend  was  too  young 
to  deceive  him.  , 

*'  One  day  he  asked  her  name,  and  she  replied  : 

"'They  call  me  Lily.' 

"  It  was  a  sweet  name,  and  suited  her  well,  for  her  heart  was 
as  pure  as  a  lily,  and  she  was  as  fair,  and  she  always  wore  a  white 
dress.  Yes,  the  friendless  stranger  loved  the  little  Lily ;  he  loved 
her  more  and  more  every  day,  until  at  last  he  felt  glad  to  know 
that  he  could  love  something,  and  his  heart  began  to  warm  and 
glow  with  kindly  feelings,  as  it  had  done  years  before. 

"  One  day  she  looked  up  at  him,  and  said  : 

"'Uncle  John'  (he  had  taught  her  to  call  him  so),  'why  don't 
you  laugh  and  run  about  as  I  do  ?' 

"  'Because  I  don't  want  to  do  it,  Lily,'  he  answered. 

"  '  But  why  don't  you  want  to  ?' 

"  He  did  not  think  that  she  would  understand  him,  and  he 
said ; 

" '  Because  I  am  not  happy,  Lily,  as  you  are.  Nobody  loves 
me,  and  I  don't  love  anybody  but  you.' 

"'Nobody  loves  you  !'  she  repeated,  her  large  blue  eyes  wide 
open  with  surprise ;  and,  shaking  her  head,  she  added :  '  then, 
Uncle  John,  you  can't  be  good  !' 

"  '  Why  not,  child  ?'  he  asked. 

"  '  Because  mamma  says  that  when  I  am  good  everybody  loves 
me,  and  when  I  am  bad  nobody  loves  me.' 

"  '  Where  is  your  mamma,  Lily  ?' 

" '  Up  there  I'  she  answered,  pointing  to  the  bright  blue  sky 
above. 

"  They  were  simple  words,  spoken  by  a  little  unconscious  child ; 
but  they  smote  the  man  to  his  very  heart,  and  that  night,  long 
after  she  was  asleep,  he  sat  on  the  deck,  and  seemed  still  to  hear 
her  saying:  'you  can't  be  good.'  He  thought  how  he  was 
wasting  his  life,  and  throwing  away  a  great  deal  of  happiness 
that  he  might  enjoy,  just  because  he  had  been  once  disappointed, 
and  he  almost  resolved  then  that  he  would  begin  at  once  to  be 


44  CAMERON    HALL. 

cheerfal  and  useful.  But  it  is  hard  to  break  bad  habits,  and  he 
had  been  too  long  sour  and  morose  to  change  all  at  once.  As 
the  time  passed  on,  Lily  and  her  friend  were  more  constantly  to- 
■gether.  She  would  run  to  him  the  moment  tTiat  her  nurse  brought 
her  on  deck  in  the  morning,  and  would  sit  in  his  lap  or  by  his 
side  all  day  until  the  nurse  insisted  upon  her  taking  her  accus- 
tomed exercise,  and  then  she  would  take  Uncle  John's  hand, 
saying  that  he  must  go  too.  When  they  had  walked  together 
up  and  down  the  deck  until  she  was  tired  and  her  cheeks  were 
glowing  with  the  roses  that  the  fresh  sea  air  had  brought  out, 
then  he  would  lead  her  to  the  bow  of  the  ship,  and,  burying  him- 
self in  a  sail,  would  wrap  his  blanket  round  her  to  keep  her  warm 
and  comfortable,  and  tell  her  stories  After  awliile  sl»e  found  out 
that  he  could  sing,  and  then  she  gave  him  no  rest  until  he  sang 
for  her.  He  did  not  like  to  do  it,  for  the  last  time  he  had  ever 
sung  was  with  the  lady  who  had  so  cruelly  disappointed  him  ; 
but  she  would  not  be  refused,  and  as  she  loved  music  dearly,  he 
had  to  sing  for  her  every  day.  Her  next  demand  was  that  he, 
instead  of  her  nurse,  should  hear  her  prayer  at  night,  and  so 
when  she  grew  sleepy,  there  in  the  saloon,  in  the  midst  of  card- 
playing  and  dice-rattling,  the  child  would  sink  upon  her  knees 
and  repeat  her  little  prayer,  and  then  she  would  climb  up  into 
his  lap  and  fall  asleep  in  his  arms,  listening  to  his  song. 

"  He  had  once  played  the  flute,  and  in  his  days  of  happiness  it 
had  been  a  great  pleasure ;  but  he  had  not  touched  it  for  years. 
But  he  still  loved  his  old  flute,  and  always  carried  it  with  him, 
for  it  seemed  like  an  old  friend.  One  day  Lily  w^as  in  his  state- 
room and  saw  the  case  in  which  he  kept  it.  Her  curiosity  was 
at  once  awakened  to  know  what  was  in  it;  and  as  soon  as  he 
opened  it,  she  exclaimed,  joyfully  : 

"  '  Oh,  the  flute  1  play  on  it.  Uncle  John  ;  I  love  it  very  much, 
and  papa  always  plays  for  me.' 

"  *  Where  is  your  papa,  Lily  ?'  he  asked. 

"  '  He  is  at  home.' 

"  '  What  is  his  name  ?' 

"  *  He  is  named  papa :  please  play  for  me,  Uncle  John,  won't 
you?' 

"And  he  did ;  he  took  the  flute  out  of  the  case  where  it  had 
been  for  so  many  years ;  and  he  and  Lily  went  to  their  old  place 
upon  the  deck.  The  first  note  fell  painfully  upon  his  ear  and 
heart,  for  it  recalled  both  his  past  happiness  and  his  present  sor- 
row; but  by  degrees  it  seemed  to  soothe  and  quiet  his  feelings, 
and  he  loved  to  play  as  much  as  Lily  loved  to  listen. 

"  He  revived  the  old  tunes  that  were  the  favorites  of  his  boy- 
hood, and  the  clear  tones  of  Uncle  John's  flute  sounded  very 


CAMERON    HALL.  45 

sweetly,  as,  at  the  twilight  hour  or  by  moonlight,  he  used  to  play 
for  Lily,  when  the  air  was  so  still  that  the  music  was  wafted  far 
over  the  quiet  waters  and  died  away  in  the  sweetest  of  murmurs. 

"  Days  and  weeks  passed  by,  and  the  voyage  was  at  last  almost 
over.  Other  passengers  began  to  count  with  pleasure  the  few 
remaining  days,  and  Uncle  John  alone  looked  forward  with 
regret  to  the  time  when  they  should  reach  the  land.  The  society 
of  his  child-friend  had  become  almost  a  necessity  to  him ;  he  felt 
himself  growing  to  be  a  better  man  in  the  pure  atmosphere  of  her 
innocence;  and  he  dreaded  the  separation,  not  only  on  account 
of  the  pain,  but  also  because  he  dreaded  a  relapse  into  his  former 
moodiness  and  discontent,  out  of  which  she  had  gradually  drawn 
him.  He  now  not  only  loved  the  little  Lily,  but  he  began  almost 
to  reverence  her,  and  he  felt  that  if  he  should  ever  recover  his 
former  kindness  oi  heart  and  feeling,  that  he  would  owe  it  to  this 
child's  unconscious  influence. 

"  He  knew  nothing  of  her  except  her  name,  and  that  she  had 
been  sent  by  her  father,  under  the  care  of  her  nurse,  to  his  mother 
in  the  United  States.  They  traveled  together  as  far  as  Rich- 
mond, and  there  they  separated  ;  he  to  go  to  his  home  in  another 
part  of  Yirginia,  and  she  to  her  grandmother  in  South  Caro- 
lina. 

"  When  the  nurse  found  out  where  he  was  going,  she  gave  him 
a  small  package,  containing,  she  said,  two  miniatures,  one  of  the 
child  and  the  other  of  her  mother,  which  she  requested  him  to 
give  to  Mrs.  Ellsworth,  Lily's  grandmother.  The  name  fell  like  a 
thunderbolt  upon  Uncle  John's  heart.  Strange  was  it  that  the 
child  of  Lucy  Ellsworth  should  be  the  first  to  touch  with  healing 
balm  the  wound  that  the  mother  had  made  I  Strange  that  the 
child  should  so  sweetly  comfort  him  whom  the  mother  had  so 
cruelly  wronged  I  Strange  that  the  heart  which  had  been  denied 
the  mother's  love,  should  thus  as  it  were  seek  to  compensate  it- 
self by  gaining  the  affection  of  the  child  I 

"  When  he  gave  the  package  to  Mrs.  Ellsworth,  he  did  not  ask 
to  see  the  mother's  picture,  but  he  begged  to  look  at  the  child's. 
It  was  a  correct  and  beautiful  likeness,  and  he  had  it  copied  and 
wore  it  all  the  time. 

"  He  had  also  been  the  bearer  of  a  message  to  Mrs.  Ellsworth, 
that  after  Lily  had  spent  some  time  in  South  Carolina,  she  would 
come  to  visit  her  other  grandmother  in  Yirginia;  and  Uncle  John 
looked,  and  hoped,  and  longed  for  her  to  come.  Montljs  passed 
away,  and  still  she  did  not  come,  and  finally,  after  he  had  stayed 
there  a  year,  the  old  restless  feeling  returned,  and  he  wanted  to 
travel  again. 

**  Time  had  somewhat  healed  his  wounded  heart,  and  he  thought 


N 


46  CAMERON    HALL. 

of  his  early  love  no  longer  with  bitterness,  but  with  that  forgive- 
ness which  death  ever  exacts  and  receives.  He  thought  of  her 
in  her  early  grave  in  a  foreign  fand,  and  resentment  dared  not 
pursue  her  there.  He  went  to  Europe,  and  this  time  found  much 
to  interest  him.  He  led  a  sort  of  half-roving,  half-settled  life — 
sometimes  sojourning  weeks  and  sometimes  months  in  a  place, 
as  his  fancy  dictated ;  but  he  no  longer  shut  himself  out  from 
society,  and  he  formed  many  pleasant  acquaintances  and  some 
strong  friendships.  He  did  not  intend  to  live  in  Europe  ;  but  his 
father  died  unexpectedly,  and  as  he  had  no  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  his  mother  had  been  long  dead,  he  felt  that  the  last  tie  had 
been  sundered  that  bound  him  to  this  country,  and  he  deter- 
mined to  stay  there  as  long  as  he  pleased,  and  perhaps  to  live 
there. 

"Often  did  he  think  of  Lily,  and  wondered  what  had  become 
of  her.  He  did  not  like  to  think  of  her  as  growing  out  of  child- 
hood, but  he  loved  to  picture  her  still  as  the  little  child  of  long- 
ago.  When  he  went  to  Rome,  he  had  her  miniature  copied  again 
by  one  of  the  best  artists  there ;  and  in  all  the  celebrated  picture- 
galleries  of  Europe,  he  saw  nothing  which  was  to  his  eye  and  to 
his  heart  so  beautiful  as  the  little  picture,  that  he  always  wore, 
of  his  child-angel. 

"  Many,  many  years  passed  away,  and  Uncle  John  grew  old, 
and  he  began  again  to  think  of  his  home.  It  may  be  pleasant 
to  wander  about  in  other  lands  and  among  other  scenes  when 
we  are  strong  and  full  of  life ;  but  when  old  age  comes,  and  our 
hair  is  gray  and  we  begin  to  fail,  we  all  want  to  go  home  to  die. 
So  it  was  with  Uncle  John.  He  came  home,  but,  alas  I  it  was 
not  home  to  him  now.  The  old  homestead  was  not  the  same,  for 
he  missed  the  father  and  mother  who  had  made  it  home  to  him 
in  boyhood.  Old  friends  were  dead,  and  their  children,  strangers 
to  him,  had  taken  their  places.  Mrs.  Ellsworth  was  dead  and 
her  family  broken  up  and  scattered  in  distant  homes.  He  in- 
quired for  Lily,  but  none  knew  anything  of  her.  The  old  man 
could  not  stay  there,  so  he  wandered  again,  and  at  last  found 
himself  in  a  quiet  mountain-girt  village.  It  was  a  sweet  place 
for  a  home,  bat  it  was  not  his;  it  was  full  of  strangers,  and  he 
was  lonely.  He  was  walking  one  evening  about  twilight,  when, 
as  he  passed  a  church,  he  heard  a  strain  of  sweet  music  that  stole 

down  to  his  very  heart.    He  went  into  the  church But,  Agnes, 

you  know  the  rest  of  the  story;  you  know  that  the  old  wanderer 
has  at  last  found  a  home  and  friends,  and  another  sweet  little 
child-companion." 

"  Why,  Uncle  John,  do  you  really  mean  that  you  yourself  are 
the  young  man  and  the  old  man  of  this  story  ?" 


CAMERON    HALL.  -  47 

"  Yes,  Agnes.    I  have  told  you  the  story  of  my  life." 

"And  this  then  is  the  reason  that  you  love  little  children  so 
much,  because  they  make  you  think  of  her, — is  that  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,  I  love  all  children,  for  I  feel  that  I  owe 
to  childhood  a  debt  that  I  can  never  repay." 

"  I  am  glad  that  something  makes  you  love  me,  Uncle  John," 
she  answered  in  a  disappointed  tone;  "but  I  would  a  great  deal 
rather  that  you  should  love  me  for  myself,  than  because  I  remind 
you  of  some  other  child." 

"  I  do  love  you  for  yourself,  Agnes.  Didn't  I  tell  you  just  now 
that  I  love  you  because  you  are  gentle,  and  affectionate,  and 
cheerful  ?" 

"  Yes,  Uncle  John,  but  don't  you  recollect  the  first  time  that 
you  ever  saw  me,  you  kissed  me,  and  said  that  you  were  going  to 
love  me  very  much ;  and  then  you  did  not  know  whether  I  was 
gentle  and  affectionate  or  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  know  now,  daughter,  and  I  love  you  now  for  your 
own  self  alone  ;  but  surely  you  can  have  no  objection  to  remind- 
ing me  of  my  other  little  friend,  have  you  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  but  I  cannot  see  how  I  can  remind  you  of  her — she 
was  a  very  little  child,  and  she  was  not  blind." 

"  But  she  was  a  musical  child,  Agnes  ;  and  this  was  perhaps, 
after  all,  the  strong^est  attraction  that  drew  me  toward  you  be- 
fore I  had  learned  t'o  love  you  for  yourself.  She  loved  music  so 
much  that  I  always  think  of  her  as  a  little  musician ;  and  when- 
ever I  hear  music  I  can  see  her  bright  face  as  it  used  to  look 
when  she  was  listening  to  the  flute.  Yes,  daughter,  although 
you  are  in  many  respects  so  unlike  her,  yet  you  often  remind  me 
of  her,  and  not  least  of  all  in  your  great  love  for  the  old  Uncle 
John,  so  much  like  her  love  for  the  young  Uncle  John.  Sweet 
little  Lily  1"  he  added  musingly:  "how  I  would  like  to  know  if 
she  is  still  living,  if  she  is  happy,  and  if  her  womanhood  has  ful- 
filled the  promise  of  her  childhood." 

"If  she  were  living,  Uncle  John,  and  you  knew  where  to  find 
her,  would  you  leave  us  and  go  to  live  with  her?" 

"  Xo,  Agnes,  I  expect  to  stay  where  I  am  the  rest  of  my  life. 
If  Lily  is  living,  she  is  now  a  grown  woman,  as  old  or  perhaps 
older  than  your  mother.  She  has  formed  other  ties,  and  most 
probably  has  no  recollection  at  all  of  him  who  remembers  her  so 
well.  If  she  were  to  meet  me  now  it  would  be  as  a  stranger, 
with  no  interest  in  me,  no  affection  for  me.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it 
is  better  that  I  should  never  see  her  again.  She  might  disap- 
point me  in  appearance  and  character,  and  I  would  not  like  to 
have  the  sweet  image  now  impressed  upon  my  memory  effaced. 
Look  at  it,  Grace;  isn't  it  a  lovely  picture?" 


•48  *.  -         CAMERON    HALL. 

He  Opened  a  little  gold  case,  looked  at  it  a  moment  with  a 
half  audible  sigh,  and  then  gave  it  to  Grace. 

It  was  a  radiant  little  face  in  a  setting  of  roseate  and  amethyst 
clouds;  and,  bat  that  it  had  no  wings,  it  might  have  been  mis- 
taken for  one  of  those  cherubs  on  which  Raphael's  genius  was 
accustomed  lovingly  to  expend  itself. 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Grace,  looking  earnestly  at  it. 

"  Uncle  John,  I  want  to  see  it  too,"  said  Agnes. 

He  tried  patiently  to  describe  the  form  and  features,  but  he 
well  knew  that  words  could  not  paint  the  picture  upon  her  mind. 
She,  however,  was  satisfied,  as  she  always  was,  and  if  her  idea  of 
it  was  faint  and  imperfect,  she  was  at  least  happily  unconscious 
how  very  far  it  fell  short  of  the  perception  of  those  who  are 
blessed  with  sight. 

**  Is  she  in  a  white  dress,  Uncle  John  V 

"  There  is  no  dress  in  the  picture,  Agnes.  There  is  nothing 
but  her  little  face,  with  soft  clouds  all  around  it,  and  her  white, 
beautiful  neck,  and  her  round,  dimpled  arms,  on  one  of  which  her 
cheek  rests." 

"  She  looks,  indeed,"  said  Grace,  "like  a  child-angel." 

"Yes,  Grace,  so  I  designed  it  to  be,  for  she  had  truly  been  a 
child-angel  to  me,  in  taking  the  bitterness  out  of  my  poisoned 
life  and  in  drawing  the  sting  from  my  wounded  heart.  She 
could  not  make  me  altogether  a  happy  man,  yet  ever  since  I 
knew  her,  I  seem  to  have  regained  the  kindlier  feelings  of  my 
youth,  have  been  much  less  soured,  and  distrustful,  and  sus- 
picious, and  have  loved  children  with  an  affection  amounting 
almost  to  reverence.  I  feel  that  I  owe  to  my  brief  intercourse 
with  her  a  change  in  the  whole  tone  and  current  of  my  thoughts. 
I  actually  shudder  when  I  think  what  a  morose,  embittered,  mis- 
anthropic old  man  I  should  now  be  if  I  had  gone  on  as  I  had 
begun.  By  this  time  I  should  have  been  intolerable  to  myself 
and  to  everybody  else.  As  it  is,  I  am  a  very  bearable  old  Uncle 
John, — don't  you  think  I  am,  Agnes  ?" 

"  I  think  you  are  the  very  best  old  Uncle  John  in  the  world," 
she  answered,  and  added  feelingly:  "do  you  know,  Uncle  John, 
that  I  have  not  felt  half  so  blind  since  I  knew  you  ?" 

His  eyes  moistened  at  this  simple  acknowledgment  of  the  place 
that  he  occupied  in  the  child's  heart,  and  his  soul  was  stirred  at 
the  thought  of  being  light  to  her  darkness,  and  pleasure  to  her 
loneliness. 

Presently  he  said : 

"Agnes,  if  I  were  to  hear  now  that  my  little  child- angel  was 
still  upon  this  earth,  and  had  grown  up  to  be  an  angel-woman,  I 
would  not  go  to  live  with  her  now.    I  would  stay  with  you." 


dAMERON     HALL,  ■  49 

"Thank  you  for  that,  Uncle  John,"  she  said  earnestly.  "I 
would  rather  have  that  promise  than  anything  that  you  could 
give  me  ;  yes,  even  than  the  great  beautiful  organ  that  you  have 
promised  me." 

"  You  shall  have  both,"  he  said  ;  "  and  all  that  I  ask  in  return 
is,  that  you  shall  love  me,  and  play  for  me  on  the  organ  whetl- 
ever  I  ask  you." 

"  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  do  that.  I  wish  I  had  it  now,  for 
I  love  and  thank  you  so  much  this  minute,  that  I  am  sure  I 
could  play  for  you  the  sweetest  strain  that  I  ever  played  in  my 
life. " 

"  No,  you  would  not,  Agnes,  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  for  I 
would  not  stay  to  listen  to  it.  Do  you  know  what  time  it  is  ?  It 
is  after  eleven  o'clock,  and  you  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  and 
fast  asleep  two  hours  ago.     Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  Uncle  John.  Thank  you  for  your  story ;  above 
all,  thank  you  for  the  promise  of  an  organ.  l"'know  that  I  shall 
be  all  night  playing  '  thank  you,  kind  Uncle  John,'  in  my  dreams 
upon  my  great  big  new  organ." 


CHAPTER  Y 


It  was  late  in  November,  and  Agnes  had  been  several  weeks 
before  prohibited  from  going  any  more  into  the  cold  church, 
when  her  heart  w^as  gladdened  by  the  arrival  of  her  own  organ! 
Its  power  and  sweetness  even  exceeded  her  expectations,  aiid  it 
had  several  stops  with  which  she  was  unacquainted,  and  a  rich, 
deep  pedal  bass  that  thrilled  her  soul  with  delight.  She  was 
now  quite  independent  of  society,  for  the  organ  was  companion 
enough ;  and  now  that  she  had  access  to  it  at  all  hours,  her  love 
for  it  was  fast  becoming  an  uncontrollable  passion. 

Joe  was  now  entirely  domesticated  in  the  cottage,  which  had 
become  his  home.  The  tie  that  bound  him  to  Agnes  had  grown 
stronger  day  by  day,  until  at  last  he  was  not  contented  to  be  her 
companion  only  at  the  organ,  but  he  followed  her  constantly  and 
everywhere.  He  did  not  talk  to  her— for  he  rarely  spoke  to  any 
one— nor  was  he  interested  in  her  conversation,  for  he  did  not 
understand  anything  that  she  talked  about ;  but  he  seemed  to 
enjoy  a  placid  contentment  when  he  was  either  sitting  or  stand- 
ing by  her  looking  into  her  face.     The  mother  had  learned  to 

6 


50  CAMERON    HALL. 

regard  the  poor  idiot  with  a  different  feeling  from  that  she  had 
toward  him  at  first.  It  v.-as  now  not  only  compassion,  bat  affec- 
tion too,  that  she  felt  for  one  whose  nearest  approach  to  pleasure, 
in  a  dreary  and  monotonous  life,  was  in  the  presence  of  her  af- 
flicted child  ;  and  Joe's  devotion  to  Agnes  had,  unconsciously 
to  himself,  secured  to  hira,  in  the  person  of  her  mother,  the  kind- 
est and  gentlest  of  friends.  She  had  finally  taken  him  into  her 
own  home  to  guard  and  shield  his  defenseless  life,  and  he  now 
seemed  as  necessary  a  part  of  her  family  circle  as  was  the  child 
herself.  Agnes  was  sincerely  attached  to  hira.  As  soon  as  she 
became  old  enough  to  understand  his  condition,  her  mother  told 
her  all  about  it,  and  the  sympathy  thus  awakened  only  served 
to  deepen  her  affection  for  her  faithful  follower.  "To  make 
music,"  as  Joe  termed  it,  seemed  now  indeed  the  business  of  their 
lives,  and  the  mother  watched  Agnes's  passion  with  a  feeling  of 
mingled  anxiety  and  pleasure,  ^lad  that  she  had  an  unfailing 
source  of  interest  and  amusement,  and  yet  fearful  lest  both  mind 
and  body  might  in  the  end  be  sacrificed  to  her  one  absorbing 
passion.  She  pleaded,  and  the  doctor  commanded  that  there 
should  be  less  music  and  more  exercise;  but  Agnes  was  incor- 
rigible. Julia  and  Eva  tried  to  tempt  her  with  the  attractions 
of  the  Hall;  but  there  was  now*  an  enjoyment  in  her  cottage 
home  which  Cameron  Hall,  with  all  its  comfort  and  luxury,  could 
not  afford.  For  a  long  time,  Uncle  John  refused  to  join  in  the 
general  remonstrance.      He  said  : 

"Let  the  child  alone,  it  will  not  always  be  so.  She  is  study- 
ing now,  and  learning  the  use  of  those  unfamiliar  stops;  but  by 
the  time  that  she  has  learned  to  control  this  instrument  as  she 
did  the  one  in  the  church,  the  novelty  will  have  worn  off  and  she 
will  play  in  moderation." 

But  Uncle  John  proved  no  true  prophet.  "Week  after  week, 
and  month  after  month  passed  away,  but  she  did  not  play  with 
the  expected  moderation.  During  the  winter,  when  it  was  too 
cold  and  disagreeable  for  her  to  exercise,  her  mother  indulged 
her;  but  when  the  spring  opened,  and  the  genial  air  made  it 
both  pleasant  and  necessary  for  her  to  walk  every  day,  Grace 
found  her  incorrigible.  She  had  now  become  so  wedded  to  her 
music,  that  her  mother  found  that  the  only  way  to  interest  her 
in  her  lessons  was  to  attend  to  them  all  in  the  morning  before 
she  permitted  her  to  touch  the  organ.  At  last  her  maternal 
anxieties  were  thoroughly  aroused ;  for  she  could  not  but  see  the 
pale  cheeks  and  the  languid  step  that  pleaded  so  strongly,  but 
in  vain,  for  fresh  air  and  healthful  exercise.  She  stood  one  day 
watching  Agnes  as  she  sat  in  her  accustomed  place,  and  hesi- 
tated whether  or  not  she  would  interrupt  the  beautiful  strain  and 


CAMERON    HALL.  51 

the  child's  evident  enjoyment  of  it;  but  she  felt  it  to  be  her  duty, 
and,  going  up  to  her,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  shoulder  and 
said  : 

"Come,  my  daughter,  I  am  going  to  see  Mrs.  Derby  now,  and 
I  want  you  to  go  with  me.  It  is  a  long  time  since  you  were 
there,  and  she  asked  me  the  other  day  why  you  had  not  been." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  she  answered,  "  I  am  so  sorry  that  you  spoke  to 
me  just  then.  There  was  such  a  sweet  strain  of  music  in  my 
heart,  and  I  was  just  going  to  play  it ;  but  I  have  lost  it  now." 

The  mother's  heart  yearned  toward  the  little  blind  musician ; 
she  felt  that  she  was  asking  her  to  resign  a  pleasure,  of  which 
she,  in  the  possession  of  all  her  faculties,  could  not  conceive  ;  and 
while  her  judgment  condemned  her,  she  could  not  help  saying : 

"I  am  sorry,  my  child,  that  I  interrupted  you.  Go  on  with 
your  music,  and  perhaps  the  beautiful  strain  will  come  back. 
Another  day  will  do  just  as  well  for  the  visit  to  Mrs.  Derby." 

The  walks  and  the  visits  had  been  gradually  given  up,  and  at 
last  Grace  felt  that  she  must  interfere,  even  if  she  were  obliged 
to  resort  to  maternal  authority ;  but  willing  to  try  all  other 
means  first,  she  determined  to  enlist  Uncle  John's  influence. 

She  told  him  her  difficulty;  and  the  first  evening  that  he  came 
afterward,  he  stood  at  the  parlor  door  and  listened  some  minutes 
in  silence.  When  the  music  ceased,  he  entered  the  room,  and 
Agnes  recognized  his  first  footstep,  and  said : 

"Are  you  here,  Uncle  John  ?    When  did  you  come  in  ?" 

"A  few  minutes  ago,  just  before  you  began  that  last  strain." 

"Wasn't  it  sweet,  Uncle  John?  That  music  has  been  in  my 
heart  for  the  last  half  hour,  but  I  could  not  say  it  until  this 
minute ;  but  didn't  the  organ  say  it  sweetly  ?" 

"Yes,  my  daughter,  the  strain  was  wonderfully  sweet,  but  it 
was  wonderfully  sad  too." 

"Sad,  Uncle  John  !  why,  how  could  that  be  ?  It  was  no  sad 
feeling  that  was  in  my  heart,  and  there  was  nothing  sad  in  the 
music  to  my  ear." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  intended  to  say  through  the  organ, 
my  child,  but  I  know  what  it  said  to  me.     Shall  I  tell  you  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"It  said  to  me,  'Uncle  John,  you  did  very  wrong  when  you 
gave  Agnes  that  organ.'" 

Even  the  sightless  eyes  expressed  amazement  as  she  asked  : 

"Uncle  John,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Come  here  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  cannot  talk  to  you 
there." 

He  led  her  away  from  the  organ,  and,  seating  himself  in  a  large 
arm-chair,  took  her  in  his  lap  and  said  : 


62  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Agnes,  are  you  glad  that  I  gave  you  that  organ  ?" 

"  Glad,  Uncle  John  !  it  makes  me  so  happy,  so  very  happy, 
that  I  don't  want  anything  else  in  the  world." 

"  Would  you  be  surprised  if  I  should  tell  you  that  I  am  very 
Borry  that  I  gave  it  to  you  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  confidently.  "You  love  to  be  kind 
to  me,  and  you  love  to  see  me  happy,  and  I  believe  you  are  just 
as  glad  that  you  gave  it  to  me  as  I  am." 

"I  was  at  first,  but  now  I  am  not." 

"What  makes  you  say  that.  Uncle  John  ?" 

"  Listen  to  me  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  gave  it  to  you  to  be  an 
amusement,  a  recreation,  and  not  the  business  of  your  whole  life. 
You  do  nothing  else  now  but  sit  there  from  morning  until  night. 
You  do  not  sleep  enough;  you  do  not  exercise  at  all;  you  do 
Dot  visit  at  all ;  and  sometimes  you  do  not  even  take  time  to  eat 
your  meals  as  you  ought  to  do.  Yon  cannot  see  how  pale  your 
cheeks  are ;  you  cannot  see  how  frail  and  delicate  you  look ; 
but  your  mother  and  all  your  friends  see  it,  and  beg  you  to  give 
np  some  of  your  amusement,  and  do  what  they  know  is  so  neces- 
sary for  you.  Now,  Agnes,  if  that  organ  makes  you  lose  your 
health,  I  shall  be  very  sorry  that  I  gave  it  to  you ;  but  if,  worse 
than  that,  it  makes  my  little  obedient  and  docile  child  willful  and 
selfish,  and  unwilling  to  give  up  one  hour  of  her  pleasure  for  the 
sake  of  her  mother  and  her  friends  who  love  her  so  much,  then, 
my  daughter,  of  course  I  shall  regret  that  I  gave  it  to  you." 

Agnes  did  not  reply,  but  the  great  tears  began  to  roll  down 
her  cheeks,  and  presently  she  laid  her  head  on  Uncle  John's 
shoulder  and  cried  and  sobbed. 

Uncle  John  felt  distressed,  but  he  did  not  comfort  her.  Pres- 
ently her  mother  came  in  and  looked  inquiringly  at  him,  and  he 
said : 

"  Let  her  alone  now.  I  am  only  administering  a  little  medi- 
cine, bitter  but  wholesome." 

Grace  sat  down,  troubled  and  perplexed.  Seldom  during 
Agnes's  life  had  the  patient  and  indulgent  mother  either  spoken 
harshly  to  her  herself,  or  allowed  others  to  do  it,  and  now  it 
wrung  her  heart  to  hear  those  sobs  and  to  see  that  childish  grief. 

After  awhile,  Agnes  said  : 

"Uncle  John,  I  did  not  mean  to  be  selfish,  I  onlv "  and 

again  she  broke  down  utterly. 

"No,  my  little  daughter,  you  did  not  intend  to  be  selfish;  but 
let  us  see  if  you  have  not  really  been  so.  You  would  rather  play 
the  organ  than  to  do  anything  else.  Your  mother  asks  you  to 
walk  with  her,  but  you  tell  her  that  you  would  rather  play ;  so 
she  walks  alone  and  you  play  on.    Is  not  that  selfishly  preferring 


•I 

CAMERON    HALL.  53 

your  own  pleasure  to  hers  ?  Mr,  Cameron,  and  Julia,  and  Eva 
have  always  been  very  kind  to  you.  They  love  to  have  you  visit 
the  Hall,  and  when  you  go  and  want  Eva  to  play  on  the  piano 
for  you,  she  never  tells  you  that  she  is  too  busy,  or  would  rather 
do  sometliing  else;  but  she  will  sit  and  play  for  you  as  long  as 
you  like  to  listen.  But  now  you  prefer  to  stay  at  home  with  the 
organ,  and  all  their  entreaties  cannot  persuade  you  to  go  to  the 
Hall,  When  your  mother  first  came  here  a  stranger,  Mr,  Derby 
was  kind  to  her,  and  has  ever  since  been  her  friend.  He  loves 
music,  and  it  would  give  him  great  pleasure  for  you  to  go  some- 
times and  play  for  him  on  the  little  organ  in  his  parlor  ;  but  you 
prefer  your  own  large  one  at  home,  and  vfill  not  go.  Is  not  this 
selfish,  Agnes  ?" 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John  !"  she  said,  deprecatingly ;  "  please  don't  say 
any  more  ;  that  is  enough."  And  her  mother  looked  at  him 
with  an  imploring  look,  which  seemed  to  say :  "  Yes,  that  is 
quite  enough." 

"  Well,  my  daughter,"  he  said  kindly,  "  I  only  want  to  say 
'enough.'  I  do  not  want  to  distress  you  unnecessarily;  I  only 
wish  to  show  you  that  even  your  love  of  music,  elevating  as  it  is 
in  itself,  may  be  indulged  to  a  selfish  excess,  and  may  make  you 
unlovely  and  disobliging.  I  am  going  to  ask  a  favor  of  you 
now,  will  you  grant  it?" 

"  Most  gladly.  Uncle  John  ;   what  is  it  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me  that,  beginning  to-morrow,  you 
will  never  sit  at  the  organ  more  than  four  hours  a  day  ;  that  you 
will  walk  every  day  with  your  mother  ;  and  that  you  will  go  to 
Mr,  Derby's  and  to  the  Hall  twice  every  week.  Will  you  do 
this,  Agnes  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  There  is  only  one  part  of  the  promise  that  will  be 
hard  to  keep;  and  if  you  could  change  places  with  me  a  little 
while,  I  think  you  would  be  willing  to  alter  that ;  but  if  you 
wish  me,  I  will  promise  it  all," 

**  What  is  it  that  I  would  alter,  Agnes  ?" 

"  That  part  of  the  promise  that  limits  me  to  four  hours  a  day. 
If  you  could  only  understand  (as  you  never  can)  how  lonely  I  am 
in  my  blindness,  you  would  not  ask  me  to  promise  this ;  you 
would  ask  me  to  promise  all  the  rest,  and  allow  me  to  play  on 
the  organ  ail  the  time  that  I  am  in  the  house.  Oh,  Uncle  John !" 
she  said  touchingly,  ''nobody  knows  how  dreary  my  life  is  if  I 
have  nothing  to  do.  You  can  afford  to  sit  with  folded  hands 
and  do  nothing,  for  all  the  while  your  eyes  are  busy,  and  you  are 
seeing  something ;  but  I  can  do  only  two  things :  I  can  talk  to 
my  friends,  and  1  can  talk  to  my  organ." 

"Well,  my  daughter,  I  do  not  mean  to  be  unreasonable,  and 

5* 


54  CAMERON    HALL. 

I  will  not  ask  you  to  sit  at  home  idle.  Promise  then  to  walk  an 
hour  in  the  morning  with  me  while  your  mother  is  in  school ; 
another  in  the  afternoon  with  her;  visit  some  friend  every  day; 
say  your  lessons,  and  spend  the  rest  of  the  time  at  the  organ. 
How  will  that  suit  you  ?" 

"  Very  well,  indeed,  Uncle  John,  and  I  thank  you  for  the 
change.  If  you  had  insisted  upon  the  first  promise,  it  would 
have  been  very  hard ;  but  I  would  have  kept  it  rather  than  you 
should  have  thought  me  selfish.  Do  they  think  me  selfish  at  the 
Hall,  TJncle  John?" 

"  I  never  heard  them  sav  that,  Agnes :  but  I  have  heard  Mr. 
Cameron  and  his  daughters  regret  your  unwillingness  to  visit 
them  now.  They  love  you  very  much,  and  it  gives  them  pleasure 
to  have  you  with  them,  and  you  ought  to  value  their  friendship, 
for  it  is  not  every  child  that  has  such  friends  as  they  are." 

"I  do  value  them,  Uncle  John,  and  love  them  dearly." 

"Then,  my  daughter,  you  can  show  it  by  going  to  see  them 
when  thev  wish  it." 

"Will  you  take  me  with  you.  Uncle  John,  next  time  you  go  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will  drive  you  out  to-morrow  morning,  if  your  mother 
is  willing." 

The  mother's  consent  was  readily  obtained,  and,  at  the  ap- 
pointed time  the  next  day.  Uncle  John's  buggy  was  at  the  door. 
A  short  drive  brought  them  to  the  Hall,  where,  as  he  had  pre- 
dicted, they  were  gladly  welcomed.  The  girls  made  every  effort 
to  render  Agnes  contented  and  happy;  but  it  was  not  neces- 
sary, for  at  the  Hall  she  was  always  cheerful.  She  never  played 
on  the  piano  herself,  for,  to  use  her  own  expression,  "the  music 
was  not  deep  enough,  it  wanted  soul;"  but  when  she  was  away 
from  the  organ,  she  liked  to  hear  piano  music,  and  so,  after  din- 
ner, Eva  led  her  into  the  parlor  to  play  for  her.  As  she  left  the 
room,  Eva  said  : 

"  Uncle  John,  if  you  and  papa  want  to  enjoy  a  cigar  and 
quiet  conversation,  you  will  find  a  pleasant  retreat  in  the  library, 
out  of  the  reach  of  the  opera  music  that  Agnes  and  I  are  going 
to  have ;  but  if  you  would  like  to  hear  it,  we  invite  you  to  fol- 
low us." 

"I  believe,  Eva,"  he  replied,  "that  if  your  father  is  willing, 
we  will  adjourn  to  the  library,  for  I  want  to  have  a  private  con- 
versation with  him.  Come,  Julia,"  he  said,  as  the  three  were 
leaving  the  room,  "don't  you  go  with  those  children.  I  want 
you  to  go  with  us  ;   I  want  your  judgment." 

"Oh,  Agnes!"  exclaimed  Eva,  laughing,  as  she  raised  the  lid 
of  the  piano,  "  don't  you  feel  glad  that  we  are  excluded  from  that 
sober  company  ?    How  thankful  I  am  that  nobody  ever  thinks 


CAMERON     HALL.  55 

it  worth  while  to  appeal  to  my  judgment !  I  know  that  the 
grave  discussions  of  those  three  old  people  would  put  me  to 
sleep  in  ten  minutes!" 

Eva's  kindliness  of  disposition  was  never  more  manifest  than 
when  she  was  with  Agnes,  who,  with  her  quiet  temperament  and 
necessarily  quiet  pursuits,  was  rather  a  companion  for  the  thought- 
ful Julia  than  for  the  sprightly  Eva.  Confinement  to  the  house 
was  exceedingly  irksome  to  Eva,  and  she  generally  lived  out  of 
doors;  but  whenever  Agnes  was  at  the  Hall,  she  never  thought 
of  going  out  all  day.  Her  gayety  seemed  sobered  by  sympathy 
whenever  she  was  with  Agnes,  and  her  father  and  sister  often 
watched  with  pleasure  her  patience  and  unselfishness  in  trying 
to  amuse  her  little  blind  companion. 

A  few  years  can  efi*ect  great  changes,  especially  in  childhood ; 
and  those  that  had  passed  away  since  the  commencement  of  our 
story  had  wrought  a  great  change  in  the  appearance  of  the  three 
little  girls.  Agnes  was  growing  rapidly;  but  she  looked  pale 
and  delicate.  Her  cheeks  needed  the  bright  color  of  vigorous 
health,  and  the  effects  of  her  sedentary  life  were  plainly  visible 
in  her  appearance.  Taking  her  blindness  into  consideration,  she 
was  a  well-instructed  child — wonderfully  so,  many  thought;  but 
they  did  not  know  how  much  can  be  effected  by  years  of  patient 
teaching,  even  when  the  most  effectual  avenue  for  acquiring 
knowledge  has  been  closed. 

Julia  and  Eva  were  still  as  dissimilar  as  they  had  been  in 
childhood.  Their  characters  were  only  the  development  of  the 
germs  of  infancy,  and  the  peculiarities  which  had  marked  them 
then,  had  grown  and  strengthened  with  years.  Julia  was  still 
only  her  father's  "little  woman  "  developed  in  mind  and  stature. 
The  quiet,  undemonstrative,  reflective  child,  was  now  the  quiet, 
undemonstrative,  reflective  girl,  the  head  of  her  father's  house- 
hold, fulfilling  its  duties  and  assuming  its  cares  and  responsibil- 
ities with  an  energy  and  determination  and  faithfulness  quite 
remarkable  in  one  of  her  age.  She  had  early  yielded  to  the  in- 
fluence of  Christian  principles,  and  their  effect  was  plainly  visible 
in  her  character ;  but  her  minister  met  with  a  most  unexpected 
obstacle  in  her  outward  confession  of  them, — one  that,  had  he 
known  her  less  thoroughly,  might  perhaps  have  discouraged  him. 
While  she  both  loved  and  respected  her  pastor,  yet  her  timidity 
and  reserve  prevented  that  free  intercourse  so  necessary  between 
the  minister  and  those  whom  he  is  to  guide.  He  felt  that  he 
knew  her  well,  and'  yet  his  knowledge  was  gained  rather  by 
watching  her  outer  life,  than  by  what  she  told  him  of  her  inner 
feelings.  These  feelings  she  was  evidently  afraid  to  trust.  She 
had  so  often  seen  the  lamentable  effects  of  a  religion  purely 


66  CAMERON     HALL. 

emotional,  that  she  had  fallen  into  the  opposite  but  less  fatal 
en'or  of  ignoring  emotion  altogether  and  exalting  principle. 
Thus  in  her  fear  lest  her  feelings  should  gain  the  ascendency 
over  her  principles,  and  betray  her  into  a  premature  step,  she 
stifled  and  kept  them  down,  and  would  not  give  them  the  full, 
free  current  tliat  her  warm,  affectionate  heart  pleaded  for.  Then, 
too,  Julia's  truthfulness  and  honesty  kept  her  back.  Scorning 
hypocrisy,  and  fearing  a  lie,  she  wanted  to  be  very  sure  that  she 
was  a  Christian  before  she  confessed  herself  such ;  and  so  the 
very  traits  that  form  the  best  foundation  for  a  Christian  charac- 
ter made  her  afraid  to  assume  it;  and  the  minister,  after  waiting 
long  and  patiently,  was  at  last  tempted  to  be  discouraged.  But 
good  seed,  sown  in  such  a  soil,  must  needs  spring  up  and  grow. 
In  the  course  of  time,  without  persuasion  and  in  obedience  to 
the  convictions  of  her  own  conscience,  she  expressed  her  wish  to 
receive  the  rite  of  confirmation — a  step  whose  solemnity  she  fully 
realized  at  the  time,  and  the  sanction  of  whose  vows  and  obliga- 
tions she  never  afterward  disregarded.  She  was  conscientious 
in  her  religion,  and  her  Christian  principles  were  not  considered 
as  something  separate  from,  and  independent  of,  her  daily  life 
and  daily  duties,  but  were  rather  regarded  as  specially  designed 
to  control  them. 

Eva  was  still  the  sunbeam  of  the  Hall,  bright,  glad,  and  joy- 
ous. Full  of  health  and  life  and  animal  spirits,  she  was  the  very 
reverse  of  her  sister.  Julia  was  always  calm  and  reflective ;  Eva 
was  full  of  enthusiasm  and  impulse ;  Julia  was  practical ;  Eva 
imaginative.  Scarcely  more  than  an  infant  when  her  mother 
died,  the  little  Eva,  in  her  helplessness,  had  seemed  to  appeal 
for  sympathy  more  touchingly  than  the  rest,  and  she  had  been 
all  her  life,  by  common  consent,  the  pet  of  the  household.  And 
yet  she  was  neither  wayward  nor  spoiled,  but  was  always  bright 
and  happy,  and  all  felt  that  if  Eva  were  gone,  the  light  of  the 
Hall  would  be  gone  too.  She  was  still  "the  child,"  and  seemed 
likely  to  continue  so  all  her  life  in  the  estimation  of  those  at 
home ;  nor  was  this  alone  because  she  was  the  youngest,  for 
although  now  emerging  from  childhood,  she  still  retained  many 
of  its  traits.  The  interval  which  severed  the  sisters  so  widely  in 
early  childhood,  was  of  course  lessened  now ;  but  still  Julia  re- 
tained the  same  maternal  authority  and  influence  over  Eva  that 
she  had  so  early  possessed  ;  and  in  cases  where  the  judgment  of 
the  elder  and  the  will  of  the  younger  conflicted,  the  latter  was 
always  obliged  to  yield.  There  was,  however,  no  assumption  of 
power  on  the  one  hand,  and  no  rebellion  on  the  other ;  it  was  a 
sort  of  tacit  agreement,  that  since  Eva  had  no  mother,  Julia  was 
to  occupy  that  relation  to  her.     In  all  their  other  intercourse, 


CAMERON    HALL.  57 

they  were  sisters,  perfectly  on  an  equality ;  and  Eva  in  her  child- 
ish humors  and  frolics  often  made  herself  merry  at  the  expense 
of  her  grave  elder  sister.  Julia's  heart  was  bound  up  in  the 
child,  and  she  indulged  her  to  any  extent  in  what  she  thought 
right ;  but  beyond  this  she  was  as  firm  and  unyielding  as  her 
mother  herself  could  have  been. 

Eva  and  Walter  grew  up  companions  as  they  had  been  in  in- 
fancy. There  was  much  in  Eva's  joyous  temperament  and  ani- 
mal spirits  to  render  her  a  suitable  companion  for  her  brother, 
and  as  she  had  no  sister  near  her  own  age,  she  had  always  been 
thrown  upon  him  for  society.  The  consequence  was  that  she 
became  fond  of  his  sports  ;  she  dearly  loved  a  fishing  excursion 
with  him,  or  a  frolic  with  him  and  Carlo,  or  a  nut-gathering  in 
the  autumn  ;  and  sometimes  not  the  least  part  of  her  enjoyment 
of  these  excursions  was  to  see  Julia's  dismay  and  regret,  when 
she  returned  with  her  dress  torn  into  shreds,  or  when  she  dis- 
played her  soft  white  hands  hopelessly  dyed  with  the  dark  wal- 
nut stain.  At  such  times,  Julia  only  expostulated.  There  was 
no  principle  involved  in  staining  her  hands  or  tearing  her  dress, 
and  so  she  only  reminded  her  that  she  was  fast  growing  up  to  be 
a  young  lady,  and  that  such  amusements  belonged  to  childhood  ; 
and  the  mischievous  Eva  would  listen  demurely,  while  her 
thoughts  were  planning  another  frolic. 

Walter  had  now  been  away  a  long  time  at  school,  only  spend- 
ing the  summer  vacations  at  home  ;  and  however  Julia's  influ- 
ence and  example  sobered  Eva  in  the  intervals,  she  surely  forgot 
it  all  just  as  soon  as  Walter  returned  ;  and  torn  skirts,  and 
tanned  cheeks,  and  tangled  curls  were  the  order  of  the  day  as 
long  as  he  remained  at  home. 

With  all  this  simplicity  and  freshness  of  character,  there  was 
mingled  in  Eva  an  element  of  romance,  that  Julia  watched  anx- 
iously. Intensely  practical  herself,  she  was  perhaps  a  little  too 
much  afraid  that  it  might  render  her  sister  unfitted  for  the  com- 
mon duties  of  daily  life ;  and  while  she  loved  to  hear  the  child 
sketch  her  fancy  pictures  of  the  future,  all  glowing  with  the  pris- 
matic colors  of  her  own  bright  imagining,  yet  Julia  feared,  per- 
haps unnecessarily,  that  if  the  picture  were  not  realized,  Eva's 
life  might,  by  the  painfulness  of  contrast,  be  rendered  more 
somber  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been.  Eva  delighted  in 
reading  romances,  and  Julia  gently  but  firmly  discouraged  it. 
She  loved  it  herself,  and  indulged  it  to  a  certain  extent ;  but  she 
controlled  herself  in  the  enjoyment.  This  Eva  did  not  do  ;  and 
Julia  saw  with  apprehension  that  an  exciting  story  had  become 
to  her  young  sister's  mind  as  great  a  pleasure,  though  not  by  any 
means  so  healthful  a  one,  as  were  the  fresh  air  and  exercise  to  her 
physical  frame. 


58  CAMERON    HALL. 

She  came  into  the  library  one  day,  where  Eva  was  sitting  in 
her  father's  arra-ehair  with  her  face  buried  in  its  cushion.  She 
was  very  quiet,  and  at  first  Julia  thoiif]^ht  that  she  was  asleep  ; 
but  presently  she  heard  a  low  sob.  Nothing  ever  was  done  to 
distress  Eva  ;  nobody  ever  reprimanded  or  spoke  harshly  to  her; 
and  to  see  her  in  tears  was  so  unusual  a  sight,  that  Julia  was 
both  surprised  and  grieved.  She  went  up,  and  raised  her  head 
gently,  asking  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Nothing,  sister,"  she  answered,  as  if  she  were  half  ashamed. 
"I  could  not  help  crying  over  my  book." 

There  in  her  lap  lay  the  novel, — the  cause  of  it  all.  For  the 
moment  Julia  felt  almost  indignant,  to  think  that  the  child,  who 
had  no  cause  herself  for  tears,  should  be  wasting  them  over  im- 
aginary woes;  but  she  remembered  that  her  own  had  sometimes 
overflowed  in  the  same  way,  and  so  she  only  took  the  book  quietly 
out  of  Eva's  hand  and  closed  it,  saying : 

"  You  must  put  it  away  now,  Eva,  and  do  something  else. 
Go  and  take  a  walk,  or  play  the  piano,  or,  better  still,  go  and 
seat  yourself  at  once  to  your  German  lesson,  and  compel  yourself 
to  learn  it  thoroughly  before  you  leave  it,  and  to-morrow  you 
can  read  this  again." 

But  for  once  Eva  would  not  yield.  She  grasped  the  book 
eagerly,  and  said  : 

''  No,  sister,  I  cannot  stop  now,  for  I  am  in  the  most  interest- 
ing part  of  the  book.  It  is  too  hot  to  walk,  I  don't  want  to 
practice,  and  my  lesson  need  not  be  learned  until  to-night.  Be- 
sides, Walter  is  coming  to-morrow,  and  I  will  want  to  stay  with 
him  all  the  time;   so  I  must  finish  my  book  to-day." 

She  took  it  from  her  sister,  and  was  in  a  moment  as  deeply 
absorbed  as  ever.  Julia  stood  and  looked  at  her,  as,  forgetful 
of  her  sister's  presence,  Eva's  eyes  again  filled,  and  her  bosom 
heaved  with  sympathy  for  imaginary  distress. 

"  This  will  not  do,"  murmured  Julia,  as  she  left  the  room. 
"  Papa  must  speak  to  Eva,  and  correct  this,  or  the  child  will  be 
ruined." 


CAMERON    HALL.  59 


CHAPTER  YI. 

The  next  day  Walter  came.  The  novel  was  finished,  and 
Eva  was  ready  to  give  herself  solely  to  the  enjoyment  of  her 
brother's  society;  and  it  seemed  unnatural  that  the  young  girl, 
whose  sensibilities  had  been  so  easily  touched  by  a  romance, 
should,  a  few  days  afterward,  find  pleasure  in  frolicking  with 
her  brother  and  Carlo,  at  the  momentary  risk  of  her  white  muslin 
dress. 

TThen  Walter  had  been  at  home  a  week,  one  morning,  at  the 
breakfast  table,  Mr.  CameroQ  said : 

"Children  !  what  do  you  say  to  going  to  the  White  Sulphur, 
for  a  little  while  ?  We  have  not  been  there  for  two  summers. 
How  would  you  like  it,  Julia?" 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much,  papa,"  she  answered.  "  I  thought 
of  proposing  it  myself,  after  Walter  had  been  at  home  a  little 
while;   but  perhaps  he  will  not  be  willing  to  go  away  so  soon." 

"  On  the  contrary,  sister,  I  would  like  to  go,  if  you  all  go 
with  me.  We  need  not  stay  more  than  three  or  four  weeks,  and 
then  I  will  have  a  month  to  spend  at  home." 

"And  I  will  be  delighted,"  said  Eva,  joyously.  "  I  love  that 
beautiful  country  all  round  the  Springs;  and  Walter,  and  Carlo, 
and  I  will  have  plenty  of  fun." 

"Eva,"  said  Julia,  "you  must  remember  one  thing.  You  are 
now  two  years  older  than  you  were  when  you  were  there  before, 
and  are  quite  a  young  lady  in  appearance,  and  you  will  be  ex- 
pected to  behave  as  such.  You  cannot  be  the  romping,  tearing 
child  that  you  were  before." 

"I  declare,  sister,"  she  answered,  laughing,  "of  all  the  evils  in 
the  world,  you  have  made  me  dread  womanhood  most.  If  I  am 
to  sit  up  quiet  and  dignified,  with  ray  curls  always  smooth,  and 
afraid  to  walk  about  lest  I  may  soil  or  tear  my  dress,  I  would 
rather  not  go  at  all.  If  I  cannot  enjoy  myself,  with  Walter  and 
Carlo,  just  as  I  do  at  home,  and  be  my  own  natural  self,  and  be 
a  child  if  I  feel  like  it,  I  would  greatly  prefer  to  stay  at  home, 
where  nobody  seems  to  expect  me  ever  to  be  a  young  lady." 

Mr.  Cameron  and  Walter  laughed ;   and  Julia  said  : 

"I  don't  want  to  restrict  you  in  your  enjoyment,  Eva;  and  I 
certainly  would  not  have  you  to  be  anything  but  your  own  na- 
tural self  I  would  only  remind  you  that  you  are  no  longer  a 
child,  but  are  now  a  young  lady." 


60  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  I  am  just  as  much  of  a  child  in  feeling  now  as  I  was  then, 
and  enjoy  the  same  kind  of  pleasures.  The  glory  of  the  Springs 
is  the  freedom  from  restraint  that  everybody  ought  to  feel  in 
a  wild,  beautiful  country;  and  if  people  go  there  to  dress  np, 
and  look  handsome,  and  play  the  agreeable,  I  think  some  other 
places  would  be  much  more  suitable.  From  my  heart  I  used  to 
pity  the  young  ladies  there,  in  the  parlor,  who  were  dressed  so 
elegantly  that  they  were  afraid  to  move,  and  whose  elaborately 
braided  hair  could  not  bear  the  touch  of  flat  or  sun-bonnet ;  and 
never  did  I  so  appreciate  the  blessed  freedom  of  childhood  as 
when,  in  my  gingham  dress  and  white  apron,  I  roamed  at  large, 
thinking  of  anything  in  the  world  but  how  I  looked.  Papa,  if 
I  am  to  go  to  the  Springs  as  a  young  lady,  please  leave  me  at 
home." 

"I  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "You 
shall  go  in  any  capacity  that  you  please,  and  enjoy  yourself 
just  as  you  please.  Sister,"  he  said,  looking  at  Julia,  "has 
Eva  enough  gingham  dresses  and  white  aprons  to  take  to  the 
Springs?" 

"  I  am  afraid  not  enough  of  the  latter,  papa,  since  she  has  not 
worn  them  since  that  summer;  and  I  don't  think  it  would  be 
possible  to  find  one.  But  she  has  enough  dresses  to  go,  and 
very  nice  ones,  too,  if  we  go  immediately,  before  she  and  Walter 
and  Carlo  have  torn  them  up.  I  saw  her  only  yesterday  pl-aying 
with  the  dog  in  one  of  her  prettiest  muslin  dresses,  and  I  expected 
every  moment  to  see  it  in  tatters." 

"'Never  mind  the  dresses,  Eva,"  said  Walter.  "We  will  have 
a  famous  time  at  the  Springs.  You  and  I  will  leave  the  parlor 
and  the  ball-room  to  the  belles  and  beaux,  and  we  will  find  our 
pleasure  in  the  woods." 

It  was  rather  too  early  in  the  season  for  the  crowd  of  fashion- 
able visitors;  and  Mr.  Cameron  and  his  family  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  securing  ample  accommodation,  and  making  themselves 
comfortable.  Reared  as  they  had  been  in  the  country,  and  ac- 
customed to  its  freedom  and  unrestraint,  they  reveled  in  the  ex- 
tended sphere  now  opened  before  them, — in  the  wild  scenery,  the 
pure  mountain  air,  and  the  exhilaration  of  mind  and  body  in- 
spired by  this  enchanting  spot.  Walter  and  Eva  were  wild  with 
delight,  and  Julia  and  her  father  enjoyed  it  scarcely  less.  They 
rambled  for  hours  in  the  morning,  until  the  sun  grew  too  hot, 
and  in  the  evening,  just  before  sunset,  they  went  out  again,  to 
return  when  the  twilight  had  settled  into  dark  night,  or  when 
the  whole  scene  was  flooded  by  glorious  moonlight. 

With  the  few  visitors  that  they  found  at  the  Springs,  Eva 
soon  became  acquainted.      There  was  no  timidity  or   reserve 


CAMERON     HALL.  61 

about  her.  Free,  unrestrained,  and  simple-hearted  as  a  child, 
the  trammels  of  society  imposed  no  barrier  to  her  intercourse. 
She  could  not  long  remain  a  stranger  to  people  with  whom  she 
was  thrown  every  day,  and  could  not  learn  to  pass,  without  a 
word  or  look  of  recognition,  faces  with  which  she  was  perfectly 
familiar.  At  the  expiration  of  a  week  she  knew  everybody,  and 
was  alike  at  home  with  all ;  but  Julia  was  ditferent.  Her  reserve 
amounted  to  a  fault;  and  in  her  intercourse  with  strangers  she 
was  so  distant  and  so  shy,  that  she  denied  herself  the  privilege  of 
many  a  friendship  that  she  might  have  enjoyed,  and  passed  along 
unnoticed  and  unknown,  without  awakening  a  suspicion  of  the 
real  worth  and  value  of  a  character  hid  beneath  such  impenetra- 
ble reserve.  Especially  was  this  the  case  in  the  society  of  gentle- 
men. Her  delicacy  of  feeling,  and  fear  lest  she  might  be  thought 
anxious  to  attract  admiration,  made  her  draw  closely  within  her- 
self, and  she  never  allowed  them  to  see  her  real  character  ;  conse- 
quently, many  who  were  at  once  attracted  by  her  face,  and  eagerly 
sought  her  acquaintance,  soon  struck  a  hasty  retreat,  unable  to 
decide  whether  her  coldness  resulted  from  a  special  dislike  to 
them  personally,  or  from  a  repugnance  to  the  sex  in  general. 

Among  those  already  at  the  Springs  when  the  Cameron  family 
arrived,  was  a  young  physician  from  South  Carolina.  He  had 
been  there  several  weeks,  having  come  for  his  health,  and  wishing 
to  enjoy  the  mountain  breezes,  and  the  bracing  air,  and  the  heal- 
ing waters,  in  peace  and  quiet.  But  the  peace  and  quiet  were 
become  monotonous  and  irksome,  and  he  was  beginning  to  long  for 
the  society  which  seemed  to  his  impatience  so  late  in  coming. 
It  was  with  great  pleasure  therefore  that,  he  fonnd  himself  one 
morning,  at  breakfast,  opposite  the  two  girls  whose  faces  spoke 
them  so  widely  different,  and  yet  both  of  whom  he  felt  sure  that 
he  would  like  to  know.  Before  night  he  and  Eva  were  on  per- 
fectly good  terms,  and  she  had  invited  him  to  join  their  morning 
ramble  next  day.  He  went,  and  tried  hard  to  make  himself 
agreeable  to  the  elder  sister;  but  he  encountered  this  formidable 
barrier  of  reserve  which  seemed  to  him  like  an  icy  wall.  Charles 
Beaufort  professed  some  skill  in  reading  faces,  and  before  he  had 
even  spoken  a  word  to  Julia,  he  had  concluded  that  hers  was  a 
character  worth  studying,  and  that  it  would  require  study  fully 
to  understand  and  appreciate  it;  but  he  did  not  expect  to  meet 
such  an  obstacle  as  he  found,  nor,  when  he  encountered  it,  did  he 
imagine  that  it  would  be  so  difficult  to  overcome.  Even  in  the 
intercourse  of  that  single  day  he  thought  that  he  could  perceive 
that  it  was  timidity,  not  formality ;  a  shrinking  from  observation 
rather  than  haughty  indifference ;  and  his  failure  to  elicit  from 
her  one  word  or  look  that  betrayed  interest  in  anything  that  he 


62  CAMERON     HALL. 

safd,  SO  far  from  discouraging  hira,  only  sharpened,  the  more 
keenly,  his  desire  to  know  thoroughly  a  woman  so  utterly  unlike 
those  who  generally  frequent  fashionable  summer  resorts.  And 
so,  day  after  day,  he  sought  Julia's  society  only  to  be,  day  after 
day,  disappointed;  disappointed  not  only  because  he  seemed  not 
to  advance  one  step  toward  her  favor,  but  because  he  had  not 
yet  found  evidences  of  that  character  which  he  imugined.she  pos- 
sessed. He  was  baffled  and  perplexed.  He  relied  ui)on  the  face 
as  an  index  of  what  is  within  ;  he  studied  hers  carefully  in  every 
line  and  feature,  and  became  daily  more  and  more  convinced  that 
if  there  was  anything  in  physiognomy,  his  first  impressions  must 
be  true,  and  yet  those  first  impressions  were  not  realized.  Their 
intercourse  was  not  exactly  formal,  but  he  felt  that  however  she 
might  regard  hira,  she  at  least  treated  him  still  as  a  stranger; 
their  conversation  was  always  upon  general  ordinary  topics;  he 
knew  that  he  had  never  penetrated  beneath  the  surface,  and,  de- 
spairing of  ever  being  permitted  to  do  so,  and  feeling  that  he 
was  no  better  acquainted  with  her  than  he  was  the  first  time  he 
ever  saw  her,  he  became  discouraged,  and  by  degrees  sought 
Julia  less  and  Eva  more.  They  were  now  warm  friends,  and 
were  much  together.  Charles  loved  the  woods  as  much  as  Eva 
and  Walter.  He  was  something  of  a  geologist,  and  Eva  soon 
became  greatly  interested  in  collecting  specimens  and  learning 
from  him  how  the  age  of  the  world  and  of  its  different  periods 
was  written  upon  the  rocks.  He  regarded  her  as  a  child  and 
treated  her  accordingly,  and,  in  her  unreserve,  she  incidentally 
communicated  much  about  her  sister  which  Charles  himself  had 
not  learned;  indeed,  from  Eva  he  gained  a  clearer  insight  into 
what  Julia  really  was  than  he  could  have  done  by  months  of  such 
intercourse  as  he  had  with  her.  He  had  now  a  glimpse  of  her 
inner  home-life,  and  if  Eva  had  not  been  the  thoughtless,  unsus- 
picious child  that  she  was,  she  would  have  wondered  that  Dr. 
Beaufort  so  often  encouraged  her  to  talk  about  her  sister. 

And  now,  as  the  season  advanced,  the  crowd  of  visitors  was 
augmented  by  daily  accessions,  and  gay  and  brilliant  daughters 
of  fashion  thronged  the  drawing-rooms  by  day  and  the  ball-room 
by  night.  Julia  mingled  in  the  throng,  and  sometimes  in  the 
dance,  but  always  with  a  quiet,  subdued  manner,  that  some  in- 
terpreted as  indiffe;rence  and  others  as  haughtiness;  but  per- 
haps she  really  enjoyed  the  scene  around  her  more  than  most  of 
them,  for  her  placid  heart  was  undisturbed  by  any  feelings  of 
rivalry,  envy,  or  jealousy.  Her  acquaintance  was  sought  by 
many  of  both  sexes,  for  her  father's  name  was  honored  and  re- 
spected, but  very  few  appreciated  her  as  she  deserved,  and  Eva 
was  the  universal  favorite. 


CAMERON    HALL.  63 

It  was  a  dark  rainy  morning,  one  of  those  days  so  trying  to  the 
patience  of  the  pleasure-lovers  and  pleasure-seekers  who  have  no 
resources  within  themselves,  and  are  proportionally  miserable 
when  cut  off  from  external  sources  of  amusement.  The  young 
people  had  tried  various  means  to  beguile  the  weary  hours : 
graces  on  the  piazza  and  games  and  cards  in  the  drawing-room ; 

and  at  last  had  scattered  through  the  room  singly  or  in  groups, 

here,  four  or  five  talking  together;  there,  a  pair  of  lovers  who 
had  forgotten  the  dreariness  outside  in  the  light  of  their  own 
hearts;  and,  in  another  place,  a  person  sitting  alone  with  a  book 
or  newspaper.  Julia  was  reading  by  the  window,  and  close  by 
were  some  of  her  companions,  with  Eva  in  their  midst,  eagerly 
discussing  the  book  that  she  was  reading.  Not  far  off  sat  Charles 
Beaufort,  with  a  newspaper,  though  he  was  acquainting  himself 
rather  with  the  various  faces  around  him  than  with  the  contents 
of  the  pap&r.  Presently  he  was  attracted  by  the  voices  of  the 
girls  near  him  in  earnest  discussion.  Eva,  with  her  accustomed 
enthusiasm,  was  loud  in  her  admiration  of  the  exciting  plot  and 
interesting  characters,  the  touching  scenes  and  incidents  of  the 
book. 

Julia  was  absorbed,  and  it  was  perhaps  this  very  consciousness 
of  the  powerful  spell  that  could  be  thrown  over  her  quiet,  prac- 
tical nature,  that  made  her  so  much  dread  the  influence  of  novel- 
reading  upon  her  ardent,  excitable  sister. 

Eva  pointed  to  her  triumphantly,  as  she  exclaimed : 

"  Look  at  sister,  there  !  You  may  know  how  interesting  it 
must  be,  for  she  does  not  approve  novel-reading  generally,  and 
yet  you  see  she  is  completely  absorbed." 

"  How  do  you  like  it,  Julia  ?*'  asked  one  of  the  girls. 

Julia  neither  heard  nor  answered,  and  Eva  called  out : 

"  Sister  !  sister  !  wake  up  I  your  book  seems  to  have  carried 
you  far  into  dream-land  !" 

Julia  was  aroused  by  the  words  and  the  laugh  that  followed, 
and  Eva  asked  : 

"  Isn't  it  interesting,  sister  ?" 

"  Yery,  indeed,"  she  answered. 

"And  don't  you  like  the  heroine,  Julia?"  asked  another. 
"Isn't  she  a  beautiful  character?" 

"No,"  she  replied  quietly.  "I  do  not  like  her  character 
at  all." 

"  Not  like  her  character  I"  echoed  several  voices.  "  What  do 
you  mean  ?" 

"Simply,"  she  answered,  smiling,  "that  I  do  not  admire  her. 
I  see  that  I  am  in  the  minority ;  but  you  have  asked  my  opinion, 
and  I  must  give  it  truly." 


\ 


t>4  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  What  can  you  object  to  in  the  character  ?"  asked  one. 

"  I  think  that  it  is  deficient  in  truthfuhiess.  There  are  several 
scenes  in  the  book,  and  those  the  most  interesting  too,  in  which 
plain,  straightforward,  open-hearted  candor  might  have  prevent- 
ed much  misconception  and  misunderstanding." 

"And  marred  the  interest  of  the  book  !"  exclaimed  another. 
-     "Perhaps  so,"  replied  Julia;   "but  then  her  character  would 
not  have  been  marred." 

"  Pshaw  !  you  are  too  particular,  Julia  !  Xobody  but  your- 
self ever  would  have  noticed  such  slight  defects,  and  if  they  had, 
nobody  else  would  have  called  them  blemishes  either  in  the  char- 
acter or  in  the  book." 

^  "  That  may  be,"  she  replied,  modestly.  "  I  don't  say  that  I  am 
right ;  I  only  say  that  this  is  my  opinion,  and  that  is  what  you 
asked  for." 

"And  yet  you  seemed  to  be  not  only  interested,  but  ab- 
sorbed." 

"  So  I  was.  It  is  a  fascinating  book,  and  therein  consists  its 
danger.  It  is  well  planned  and  well  written,  and  in  our  sym- 
pathy for  the  sufferings  of  the  heroine,  we  are  tempted  to  forget 
that  they  are  in  many  instances  nothing  but  the  fruit  of  her  own 
doings." 

"  Well,  I  would  not,  for  all  the  world,  read  a  novel  with  such 
a  practical  eye.  When  I  read  romance,  I  give  myself  up  entirely 
to  it,  throw  my  whole  heart  into  it,  and,  for  the  time  being,  live 
and  move  among  its  characters  and  breathe  its  atmosphere.  There 
is  enough  of  practical  reality  in  this  everyday  life  of  ours,  and 
instead  of  carrying  its  maxims  and  axioms  into  the  world  of 
romance,  I  leave  them  all  behind ;  only  too  glad  now  and  then 
to  shake  off  their  trammels." 

"  That  may  be  very  well,"  said  Julia,  "when  the  trammels  are 
those  of  fashion  and  custom  and  mere  worldly  sanction  ;  but 
there  are  certain  great  principles  which  govern  our  daily  life, 
and  as  romance  after  all  professes  to  be  only  a  picture  of  real 
life,  these  same  great  principles  must  or  ought  to  be  as  binding 
there  as  in  the  world  of  reality.  Indeed,  I  think  that  a  grave 
responsibility  rests  upon  romance-writers.  Everybody  loves  fic- 
tion, and  everybody  reads  it,  and  the  novel-writer  should  see  to 
it  that  he  neither  ignores  nor  disregards  the  great  principles  of 
truth  and  right." 

"Well,  I  declare!"  said  one  of  the  girls,  laughing;  "you  are 
certainly  the  most  practical  novel-reader  that  1  ever  met  with." 

"Yes,  I  am  practical,"  answered  Julia,  laughing  in  return; 
"everybody  calls  me  so;  and  Eva,  there,  who  is  herself  very 
high-strung,  thinks  that  I  am  the  most  matter-of-fact  person  iu 
the  world." 


CAMERON    HALL.  65 

*'And  papa,"  said  Eva,  impetuously,  determined  that  if  being 
practical  was  thought  to  be  a  blemish  upon  her  sister's  char- 
acter, she  would  off-set  it  by  a  virtue,  "  papa  and  Uncle  John 
say  that  sister  has  the  most  wonderfully  good  judgment  that 
they  ever  saw  in  one  so  young.  They  consult  her  about  every- 
thing." 

"  Hush,  Eva  !"  said  Julia,  coloring;  "you  must  not  say  that. 
Papa  and  Uncle  John  are  partial  judges,  you  know." 

She  resumed  her  book,  but  not  to  read  long.  Charles  Beaufort 
had  heard  the  conversation,  and  when  it  ceased,  he  came  up  and 
seated  himself  at  her  side  to  talk  to  her.  The  way  was  now 
opened  to  converse  upon  another  than  common  topics,  and  he 
pursued  the  same  theme.  Though  Julia  was  evidently  embar- 
rassed to  find  that  her  remarks  had  been  heard  by  other  ears  than 
those  for  whom  they  were  intended,  yet  she  maintained  her 
ground  firmly,  but  modestly,  and  expressed  her  views  without 
reserve.  It  was  the  first  insight  into  her  character  that  she  her- 
self had  ever  given  him,  and  it  only  made  him  regret  the  more 
that  she  should  generally  shut  herself  up  in  such  impenetrable 
reserve.  Julia  had  been,  as  it  were,  beguiled  into  this  conversa- 
tion, but  it  proved  the  entering  wedge  to  another  kind  of  inter- 
course with  Dr.  Beaufort  than  she  had  ever  permitted  before. 
She  had  now  expressed  herself  freely  to  him  once,  and  he  had 
understood  her,  and  ever  afterward  she  felt  under  less  restraint 
with  him,  and  treated  him  less  as  a  stranger  and  more  as  a  friend. 
Every  day  developed  something  in  her  character  to  admire  the 
more,  and  while  he  could  not  but  prefer  to  occupy  his  present 
position  rather  than  the  one  he  held  at  first,  yet  this  did  not  bj 
any  means  satisfy  him.  Julia  now  talked  freely  with  him,  walked 
with  him,  and  did  not  disguise  the  pleasure  that  she  had  in  his 
society;  but  once  or  twice  when  he  rather  transcended  the  limits 
of  friendship,  and  showed  by  a  look  or  some  delicate  act  that  he 
would  like  to  be  regarded  in  another  light,  the  timidity  and  shy- 
ness all  came  back  in  a  moment  and  threatened  to  break  off  their 
intercourse  altogether.  He  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  it ; 
sometimes  he  imagined  that  her  affections  belonged  to  another, 
and  that  her  truthfulness  and  delicacy  had  thus  combined  to 
arrest  his  advances ;  and  at  another  time  he  thought  that  an  in- 
cidental word  betrayed  otherwise.  He  was  perplexed  to  under- 
stand her  feelings  toward  him,  but  he  liked  her  society ;  indeed, 
day  by  day,  it  was  becoming  more  necessary  to  him,  and  so  he 
determined  blindly  to  enjoy  it  while  he  could,  and  if,  in  the  end, 
he  should  be  obliged  to  relinquish  it,  to  bear  it  philosophically, 
and  try  and  forget  her. 

And  so  the  time  passed  on.    They  were  a  great  deal  together, 

6* 


66  CAMERON     HALL. 

and  had  Julia  mingled  more  with  the  girls  of  her  age,  and  had 
her  reserve  not  made  them  aff'aid  to  take  the  liberty,  they  would 
have  jested  with  her,  and  teased  her  about  her  South  Carolina 
friend;  but  as  it  was,  fortunately  for  Charles's  comfort,  she  did 
not  know  that  their  intercourse  had  ever  been  remarked,  and  so 
without  interruption  they  enjoyed  it. 

It  was  Sunday  evening ;  the  last  Sunday  that  they  were  to 
spend  at  the  Springs, — one  of  those  calm,  quiet  evenings  that  we 
sometimes  see,  wiien  the  very  air  seems  weighed  down  with  solemn 
stillness.  The  frivolous  conversation,  the  meaningless  laugh,  the 
blaze  of  fashion  to  which  not  even  the  holy  day  afforded  a  re- 
spite, were  in  striking  and  painful  contrast  to  the  peace  and 
serenity  around ;  and  i^va,  coming  up  to  her  sister,  as  they  stood 
beside  the  spring  in  the  midst  of  a  merry  crowd,  whispered  : 

"  Let  us  go  and  take  a  walk :  it  is  such  a  beautiful  evening." 

They  found  Walter,  and  the  three  went  away  over  a  neighbor- 
ing hill  to  a  quiet  little  dell  on  the  other  side,  through  which 
flowed  and  sparkled  a  little  brook.  They  were  not  unfamiliar 
with  the  spot,  for  their  rambles  often  ended  there  ;  and  Julia 
and  Charles  had  spent  some  pleasant  hours  together  there, 
strolling  along  the  banks  of  the  stream  or  sitting  under  the  trees. 
Walter  and  Eva  pursued  their  walk,  and  Julia  seated  herself 
under  a  broad  oak.  She  w^as  glad  to  be  alone  in  a  quiet  spot, 
for  new  and  strange  thoughts  and  feelings  had  just  been  awakened 
in  her  heart,  and  she  wanted  to  understand  them.  It  was  only 
that  morning  that  they  had  determined  to  return  home  in  a  day 
or  two,  and  Julia  was  startled  to  tind  that  the  thought  of  leaving 
Charles  Beaufort  had  been  all  day  uppermost  in  her  mind.  She 
felt  ashamed  and  distressed.  Quite  unconscious  that  her  own 
timidity  and  shyness  had  prevented  the  acknowledgment  of  feel- 
ings of  whose  very  existence  she  was  ignorant,  she  only  knew 
that  he  had  never  spoken  one  word  to  her  that  he  might  not  have 
said  to  any  other  young  lady  there,  and  she  was  dismayed  to  find 
that  her  feelings  had,  unasked,  become  interested.  Her  cheeks 
burned  at  the  thought,  and  she  asked  herself  what  she  was  to  do. 
There  was  but  one  course,  and  that  was  to  root  out  the  feelings 
with  no  sparing  hand,  and  Julia  determined  to  do  it.  She  felt 
sure  that  she  could,  for  obstacles  generally  gave  way  before  her 
unyielding  determination. 

Presently  a  step  was  heard,  and,  looking  up,  she  saw  with  pain 
and  surprise  the  object  of  her  thoughts  approaching  her.  At 
that  moment  she  would  rather  have  seen  anybody  else  in  the 
world.  Her  heart  beat  rapidly  and  the  color  mounted  to  her 
temples,  but  the  more  she  tried  to  be  quiet  and  composed,  the 
more  agitated  she  became ;  and  when  he  reached  her,  he  saw  at 


CAMERON    HALL.  67 

once  that  she  was,  from  some  cause,  painfully  excited.  He  did 
not  feel  at  liberty  to  notice  it;  indeed,  he  began  to  be  embar- 
rassed himself,  because  he  felt  that  he  had  intruded  upon  her 
privacy,  and  he  tried  to  reassure  himself  and  to  compose  her  by 
plunging  at  once  into  conversation.  Julia  tried  hard,  for  her 
own  sake,  to  respond  to  his  effort;  but  she  could  not,  and  she 
felt  that  her  attempt  was  a  miserable  failure. 

Charles  himself  was  exceedingly  disappointed.  He  had  unex- 
pectedly found  her  in  his  evening  stroll ;  and  when  he  saw  her 
there  alone,  the  pleasing  hope  was  at  once  awakened  that  he 
might  now  meet  with  the  encouragement,  and  find  the  oppor- 
tunity for  which  he  had  patiently  waited ;  but  instead  of  this,  he 
had  never  seen  her  so  reserved  before.  ^  She  either  could  not  or 
would  not  talk ;  and  he  was  as  much  relieved  as  she  was,  when 
Walter  and  Eva  rejoined  them.  In  their  walk  back  they  all 
went  together,  and  Charles  and  Eva  principally  sustained  the 
conversation,  thus  giving  Julia  time  to  collect  her  thoughts  and 
summon  her  accustomed  self-control.  Before  the  walk  was  ended, 
she  so  far  succeeded  that  Charles  wondered  as  much  at  her 
speedy  recovery  from  her  embarrassment  as  he  had  wondered  at 
the  embarrassment  itself.  They  passed  the  spring  on  their  way, 
and,  as  they  approached  it,  Eva  and  Walter  hastened  on,  leaving 
their  companions  in  the  rear. 

Suddenly  Charles  stopped,  and  pointing  to  a  little  cluster  of 
wild  flowers  at  his  feet,  said: 

"  Miss  Cameron,  will  you  oblige  me  by  giving  me  a  remem- 
brancer (not  of  this  evening,  for  I  would  rather  forget  this),  but 
of  our  other  pleasant  intercourse  at  the  White  Sulphur  ?" 

She  blushed  at  the  allusion  to  their  present  painful  interview, 
and  as  she  stooped  to  pluck  the  flowers,  she  only  answered ; 

"Certainly,  with  pleasure." 

She  tied  their  little  blossoms  together  with  a  blade  of  grass ; 
and  as  he  received  them,  he  offered  some  in  return,  saying : 

"I  hope  you  will  not  refuse  to  accept,  as  well  as  to  give  a 
memorial." 

She  clasped  the  flowers  upon  her  bosom  with  her  breast-pin, 
and  wore  them  during  the  evening;  but  although  he  tried  several 
times  to  win  her  back  to  her  accustomed  unreserved  conversation 
with  him,  he  could  not  succeed.  Some  new  barrier,  he  could 
not  imagine  what,  had  suddenly  sprung  up  between  them. 

Two  days  afterward  they  left  the  Springs.  At  their  departure, 
while  Charles  was  exchanging  adieus,  Mr.  Cameron,  seconded 
by  Eva,  cordially  invited  him  to  the  Hall.  He  looked  at  Julia, 
but  could  not  tell  from  her  face  whether  his  visit  would  be  ac- 
ceptable or  not,  so  he  only  responded  to  the  invitation  in  general 
terms  of  thanks  and  courtesy. 


68  CAMERON    HALL. 


CHAPTER  TIL 

A  FEW  evenings  after  they  arrived  at  home,  Uncle  John  drove 
Agnes  out  to  the  Hall.  Eva  had  much  to  tell  of  her  enjoyment 
at  the  Springs,  and  Agnes  was  interested,  and  Uncle  John 
amused  at  her  descriptions  of  persons  and  things. 

**  Sister  was  very  much  afraid,"  she  said,  "that  I  would  be 
regarded  as  nothing  but.  an  overgrown  child ;  l)ut  I  believe  in 
the  end  she  was  quite  satisfied  with  my  lady-like  deportment." 

"Yes,"  said  Julia,  "Eva  behaved  very  creditably.  She  kept 
Carlo  at  a  respectful  distance,  only  tore  her  dress  once,  and  I 
never  saw  her  in  the  parlor  with  tangled  curls.  Indeed,  she 
acted  the  young  lady  very  well,  nor  did  she  find  the  character  so 
irksome  and  disagreeable  as  she  imagined.    Did  you,  Eva  ?" 

"  No  !"  she  answered,  laughing  ;  "  I  like  my  method  of  being 
a  young  lady  very  much  indeed  ;  but  I  should  oVjject  as  much  as 
ever  to  the  prim,  overdressed  young  ladyhood  that  I  saw  in  the 
parlor.  I  mingled  the  enjoyments  of  childhood  with  mine.  I 
roamed  about  at  pleasure  all  day,  and  in  the  evening  smoothed 
my  curls  and  changed  my  dress,  and  was  ready  for  the  dance  ; 
biit  if  I  had  been  obliged  to  spend  hours  every  afternoon  ar- 
ranging a  ball-dress  or  in  the  hands  of  the  hair-dresser,  I  should 
indeed  have  been  disgusted  with  being  a  young  lady." 

"If  you  could  have  seen  her.  Uncle  John,"  said  Walter,  "in 
the  ball-room,  you  could  not  have  believed  that  she  was  the  same 
girl,  who,  only  three  or  four  weeks  ago,  wanted  to  be  always  a 
child,  and  dreaded  the  necessity  of  ever  becoming  a  young  lady. 
She  danced  and  entertained  the  gentlemen,  and  played  the  belle 
generally,  not  only  with  as  much  ease,  but  apparently  with  as 
much  enjoyment  as  anybody  there.  Indeed,  I  rather  thought  that 
she  enjoyed  it  more  than  anybody  else." 

"  I  don't  deny  it,"  she  answered.  "  I  enjoyed  myself  very  much 
in  every  way.  I  enjoyed  the  rambles,  the  dance,  the  games,  and 
the  bowling-alley,  when  I  had  an  agreeable  partner.  The  only 
time  that  I  ever  really  sighed  for  a  good  romp  with  Walter  and 
Carlo,  was  that  miserable  rainy  morning,  when  we  were  all  pent 
up  in  the  parlor, — some  half  asleep,  some  yawning,  some  com- 
plaining of  the  weather,  and  others  wondering  if  it  was  going  to 
be  a  rainy  spell,  some  reading,  and  others  again  discussing  the 
merits  of  a  novel.     I'll  warrant  that  sister  remembers  that  morn- 


CAMJRON    HALL.  6^ 

ing;   I  know  I  do,  for  it  was  the  occasion  of  the  loss  of  my 
knight ;  he  forsook  me,  and  ever  afterward  devoted  himself  to  her." 

"  How  was  that,  Eva  ?"  asked  Uncle  John. 

"  Well,  sir,  when  we  arrived  at  the  Springs,  we  found  this 
gentleman  already  there,  and  there  were  so  few  persons  that  we 
naturally  became  soon  acquainted.  I  found  him  very  gentle- 
manly and  agreeable,  and  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  he 
liked  me  too,  for  he  certainly  was  a  great  deal  with  me.  We 
took  long  walks  together,  he  and  Walter  and  I,  and  he  taught 
me  something  about  geology,  and  we  became  great  friends.  I 
thought  that  he  evidently  liked  me  a  great  deal  better  than  he 
did  my  sober,  dignified  sister.  But  this  unfortunate  morning,  he 
accidentally  overheard  a  conversation  between  some  young  ladies, 
sister,  and  myself,  upon  the  merits  of  a  novel  that  she  was  then 
reading.  I  scarcely  remember  what  sister  said;  I  only  know  that 
it  was  some  of  that  plain,  practical  sense  that  you  and  papa  are 
always  extolling,  and  that  my  knight  seemed  to  approve  it  like- 
wise. As  soon  as  we  had  finished  our  discussion,  he  came  up, 
and,  seating  himself  by  sister's  side,  began  to  talk  to  her.  I  did 
not  hear  what  they  talked  about ;  but  I  watched  his  face,  and  the 
painful  truth  flashed  upon  me  that  my  knight  was  gone,  hope- 
lessly, irrevocably  gone  I  And  so  it  proved ;  I  did  not  learn  any 
more  geology ;  he  was  engaged  with  another  pupil,  teaching  her 
either  that  or  something  else." 

"  Why,  how  is  this,  daughter  ?"  said  Uncle  John,  laughing, 
and  looking  at  Julia ;  "  I  did  not  think  you  would  have  been  at 
home  a  whole  week  without  mentioning  a  word  of  all  this  to  me, 
and,  worse  still,  that  you  would  have  left  me  to  hear  it  from 
another !" 

Julia  blushed,  and  only  answered  : 

"  If  I  had  had  anything  to  tell,  Uncle  John,  you  should  cer- 
tainly have  heard  it  before  now." 

Eva  was  in  her  element  when  she  was-teasing  her  sister;  and 
unconscious  that  this  subject  was  really  painful  to  her,  she  con- 
tinued : 

"Just  think  !  Isn't  it  strange.  Uncle  John,  that  I,  the  senti- 
mental romantic  sister,  the  one  most  fitted,  it  would  seem,  for  the 
heroine  of  a  love  affair,  should  have  been  not  only  overlooked 
(that  might  have  been  tolerated),  but  absolutely  forsaken  for  my 
matter-of-fact  sister,  who  is  so  practical  that  she  even  measures  a 
novel  by  the  square  and  compass  of  practical  principles  !  Isn't  it 
unbearable  ?"  she  added,  laughing. 

"If  it  is,"  he  replied,  "you  endure  it  with  wonderful  cheerful- 
ness. I  am  glad  to  see  that  your  faithless  knight  has  not  broken 
your  heart." 


70  CAMERON    H.A.LL. 

"  "No,  indeed,  not  yet  I  It  is  made  of  stemer  stuff'  than  that. 
But  won't  it  be  grand  now  to  have  a  little  romance  here  among 
ourselves  !  with  plain  old  Cameron  Hall  for  our  castle,  a  South 
Carolina  knight,  our  practical  sister  for  his  lady-love,  papa  for 

the  old  baron,  and  Eva  for But  where,"  said  she,  looking 

round,  "has  the  heroine  flown  ?  I  know  that  there  are  no  trap- 
doors or  invisible  closets  in  this  castle ;  how  did  she  get  out  ?" 

"She  got  out  on  her  feet,"  said  Uncle  John,  laughing,  "as  a 
sensible  woman  would  naturally  do  when  a  silly  sister  is  teasing 
her  to  death." 

"Well,  Uncle  John,  'turn  about  is  fair  play.'  She  frequently 
amuses  herself,  and  her  friends  too,  as  you  yourself  are  witness, 
with  my  romantic  notions ;  it  is  but  fair  that  I  should  sometimes 
enjoy  a  laugh  at  her  expense." 

"You  have  certainly  done  it  now,"  he  replied,  "and  have 
driven  her  out  of  the  room  besides." 

"Uncle  John,"  she  said,  with  a  mischievous  laugh,  "I  was 
only  jesting  when  I  began ;  but,  indeed,  from  the  looks  of  sis- 
ter's cheeks,  I  think  that  there  must  be  more  in  this  thing  than 
I  suspected.  Just  think  how  quiet  she  has  been  about  it !  I 
was  with  her  day  and  night  for  four  weeks  at  the  Springs,  and 
she  never  intimated  to  me,  by  word  or  look,  that  she  cared  any 
more  for  him  than  she  did  for  any  other  gentleman  there.  Now 
I  never  could  have  done  that." 

"Nobody  doubts  it,  Eva,"  he  replied.  "Everybody  at  the 
Springs  would  have  known  it  at  once,  if  your  heart  had  been 
interested.  Indeed,  I  would  not  be  surprised  if  some  would  have 
found  it  out  before  you  yourself  did." 

"Oh  no.  Uncle  John  !  I  would  not  like  everybody  to  know 
such  a  thing ;  but  I  would  be  certain  to  tell  sister  and  all  my 
friends ;  indeed,  I  could  not  help  it." 

"No,  child,  you  could  not;  you  would  betray  it  just  as  cer- 
tainly, and  just  as  naturally  as  you  breathe  the  air.  But  you 
have  not  yet  told  me  the  name  of  your  knight." 

"Dr.  Charles  Beaufort,  of  South  Carolina." 

"Beaufort,  of  South  Carolina!"  he  exclaimed.  "Then  he 
must  be  a  son  of  William  Beaufort,  my  old  college  friend.  How 
time  flies  I"  he  added,  thoughtfully,  "  and  what  an  old  man  I  am 
getting  to  be  1  Think  of  William  Beaufort's  son,  a  young  man 
older  than  his  father  was  when  I  knew  him  !" 

"  Have  you  never  seen  him.  Uncle  John,  since  he  was  so 
young  ?" 

"Only  once,  Eva,  since  we  parted  at  college;  and  that  was 
not  very  long  afterward.  He  was  a  noble  fellow,  and  I  have  all 
my  life  looked  forward  to  meeting  him  again  as  one  of  my  greatest 


CAMERON    HALL.  71 

pleasures  ;  and  especially  the  last  few  years,  since  I  have  felt  my- 
self growing  old.  I  have  determined  every  year  to  visit  him 
before  its  close.  William  Beaufort's  son  1  Trulj,  Eva,  when 
you  began  to  tell  me  about  your  knight,  I  little  thought  that  I 
would  be  so  much  interested  in  him.'' 

"  Not  my  knight,  Uncle  John ;  he  is  sister's  now.  I  have 
surrendered  all  claim  to  him." 

"  I  wish  that  you  or  your  sister,  or  whoever  claims  him  and 
controls  him,  had  brought  him  home  with  you.  I  would  like 
nothing  better  than  to  see  and  know  him  myself.'* 

"  He  treated  me  very  cruelly,"  she  answered,  laughing  ;  "yet  I 
must  acknowledge  that  I  think  you  would  find  him  worth  know- 
ing. I  wish  he  would  come  too,  and  I  was  even  magnanimous 
enough  to  invite  him  to  the  Hall ;  but  his  lady-love  was  not  so 
hospitable,  and  he  did  not  promise  to  come." 

"Is  he  still  at  the  Springs,  Eva?  If  so,  I  will  write  myself 
and  ask  him.'^ 

"  We  left  him  there;  and  I  believe  he  intends  remaining  until 
the  close  of  the  season." 

"Then  I  will  write  to  him  to-morrow." 

Julia  now  returned  as  quiet  and  serene  as  ever.  Eva's  eyes 
were  full  of  mischief,  and  she  was  ready  for  another  attack ;  but 
a  glance  from  her  father  arrested  the  words  that  already  trem- 
bled on  her  lips;  and  she  saw  that  it  was  decreed  that  Julia 
should  spend  the  rest  of  the  evening  in  peace. 

When  Uncle  John  and  Agnes  were  returning  home,  he  said, 
more  to  himself  than  to  her : 

"I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  give  up  Julia;  but  it  must  be  so  in 
the  course  of  events.  She  is  destined  to  make  some  man  happy, 
very  happy  !" 

"  Uncle  John,"  said  Agnes,  "you  say  that  you  are  an  old  man ; 
do  you  look  old  ?" 

"  Yes,  daughter,  I  look  old  ;  and  ever  since  my  youth,  I  have 
seemed  older  than  I  really  was.     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Does  Miss  Julia  think  that  you  look  old  ?" 

"Yes,  she  is  obliged  to  think  so,  when  she  looks  at  my  wrin- 
kled face  and  white  head." 

"  Does  she  think  that  you  are  very  old,  entirely  too  old  to  have 
a  young  wife  ?"  persisted  Agnes. 

"  Why,  child,  what  are  you  talking  about?  I  don't  understand 
you." 

"  I  want  to  know.  Uncle  John,  if  she  will  say  yes,  when  you 
ask  her  to  marry  you." 

"Why,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Agnes  ?"  replied  he,  both 
amazed  and  amused.     "Who  could  have  put  such  a  notion  into 


72  CAMERON    HALL. 

your  head  ?    I  am  sure  that  it  has  never  entered  either  hers  or 
my  own." 

"  Nobody  put  it  into  my  head,  Uncle  John.  I  have — I  was 
going  to  say — seen  it ;  but  that  I  could  not  do  ;  but  I  have  felt 
that  you  loved  Miss  Julia  better  than  anybody  in  the  world  ;  and 
so  I  thought  of  course  you  must  want  to  marry  her." 

"No,  child,  no!  Uncle  John  is  an  old  bachelor,  quite  old 
enough  to  be  Julia's  father.  He  loves  her  very  much,  it  is  true ; 
but  not  as  you  imagine.  Besides,  Agnes,  did  you  not  hear  Eva 
say  that  a  young  gentleman  at  the  Springs  liked  Julia  very 
much  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  but  Eva  does  not  know  that  Miss  Julia  likes  him; 
and  I  do  know  that  she  loves  you  very  much." 

"  Yes,  such  love  as  she  has  for  her  father.  Agnes,  I  never 
expect  to  marry  anybody." 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John,  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that !"  she 
said,  with  a  look  and  a  tone  of  infinite  relief.  "  I  do  not  want 
anybody  in  this  world  to  take  your  heart  away  from  me." 

*'My  poor,  little,  jealous  child  !"  said  Uncle  John,  putting  his 
arm  around  her,  and  drawing  her  up  close  to  him  ;  "  nobody 
shall  ever  do  that.  I  have  promised  to  devote  the  rest  of  my 
life  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  my  little  blind  child  ;  and  I 
intend  to  do  it." 

"Will  you  promise  me  never  to  marry  anybody  ?" 

"  There  is  no  need  to  promise,  Agnes.  It  is  not  at  all  prob- 
able that  I  will  ever  want  to  marry  'anybody ;  and  even  if  I 
should,  nobody  will  want  to  marry  me." 

"But  will  you  promise?  Will  you  promise  never  to  marry 
anybody,  at  least  as  long  as  I  live  ?" 

"I  might  as  well  make  the  promise  unconditionally,  my  child ; 
for  you  will  probably  outlive  me  many  years." 

"Perhaps  so,"  she  said,  "and  perhaps  not.  It  may  not  be 
right  to  ask  you  never  to  marry  at  all;  but  will  you  promise 
never  while  I  live  ?" 

"  Is  it  right,  my  daughter,  to  wish  to  bind  me  by  such  a 
promise  ?  Suppose  that  Uncle  John  should  find  somebody  in 
the  world  whom  his  old  heart  could  love  very  much, — somebody 
who  would  cheer  his  solitary,  lonely  life, — would  you  be  willing 
to  condemn  him  to  loneliness  and  solitude,  for  fear  that  he  might 
love  somebody  else  better  than  you  ?  This  would  be  selfish,  my 
daughter,  and  you  are  not  generally  so." 

Agnes  did  not  reply;  but  Uncle  John  read  plainly  in  her  face 
that  she  still  wanted  the  promise.  His  heart  went  out  toward 
the  little  helpless  child,  who  seemed  to  cling  to  him  for  protec- 
tion and  love,  and  for  an  instant  he  was  tempted  to  gratify  her ; 


CAMERON     HALL.  73 

but  afterward  he  thought  that  it  was  better  not ;  it  would  be 
encouraging  her  to  be  selfish  and  exacting. 

"I  tell  you  w^hat  I  will  promise,  Agnes,"  he  said.  "I  will 
promise  never  to  marry  anybody  unless  you  are  willing ;  and  I 
will  pledge  myself  to  love  and  take  care  of  you,  and  be  a  father 
to  you  so  long  as  I  live.     Will  that  do  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  "  I  will  be  satisfied  with  that.  Thank 
you,  Uncle  John,  I  am  very  happy  now ;  so  happy,  that  I  can 
almost  see  !" 

About  a  week  afterward,  Uncle  John  went  out  to  the  Hall 
with  a  letter. 

"  See  here,  Eva  I"  he  said.  "  Here  is  your  knight's  answer 
to  my  invitation." 

"Is  he  coming?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  he  is  coming  ;  but  take  it  and  read  it  for  yourself." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  folded  it  again,  "it  is  very 
well  to  talk  about  the  pleasure  of  renewing  the  acquaintance  of 
'the  Cameron  sisters;'  I  know  well  enough  what  that  means. 
Uncle  John,"  she  asked  archly,  "  what  is  the  reason  that  peo- 
ple always  feel  obliged  to  throw  a  little  thin  veil  of  duplicity 
over  their  love-matters  ?  Why  is  it,  that  those  who  would  scorn 
evasion  in  anything  else,  think  it  not  only  justifiable,  but  almost 
indispensable  in  affairs  of  the  heart  ?  Now  I  would  have  liked 
it  much  better,  if  Dr.  Beaufort  had  said  candidly,  'Miss  Julia 
Cameron,'  instead  of  'the  Cameron  sisters  ;'  and  he  might  as  well 
have  done  it,  for  we  all  know  exactly  what  he  meant." 

"Come,  come,  Eva,"  replied  Uncle  John,  laughing,  "you  have 
no  right  to  interpret  his  feelings  otherwise  than  by  his  own  words. 
He  says  that  he  wants  to  see  you  both,  and  you  ought  to  believe 
him.  You  told  me  yourself  that  he  was  very  fond  of  your  so- 
ciety, and  was  a  great  deal  with  you." 

"Yes,  that  is  true;  but  it  was  only  before  he  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  sister.  You  know,  Uncle  John,  everybody  is 
acquainted  with  me  in  five  minutes  after  the  introduction ;  but  it 
takes  a  long  time  to  know  sister,  and  I  only  enjoyed  the  privilege 
of  the  doctor's  society  while  he  was  gradually  making  his  way 
to  her  confidence.  Uncle  John,  as  sure  you  live,  they  were  a 
sly  couple  1" 

"Oh,  Eva!"  exclaimed  Julia,  "what  an  accusation!" 

"It  is  true,  sister,  for  the  event  proved  it.  While  I  felt  secure 
in  my  possession,  and  thought  that  I  had  him  fairly  ensnared,  I 
suddenly  found  not  only  that  my  only  claim  to  his  favor  was  the 
fact  of  being  your  sister,  but  what  was  more  astounding  still, 
that  you  yourself  did  not  regard  him  with  indifference." 

Julia  blushed  deeply  and  painfully.     She  had  earnestly  hoped 

1 


74  CAMERON    HALL. 

that  nobody  suspected  the  existence  of  feelinprs  which  she  herself 
had  so  unexpectedly  found  in  her  heart,  and  which  she  was  so 
honestly  and  earnestly  striving  to  eradicate.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  her  sister's  raillery ;  but  she  was  at  a  loss  now  to  tell 
how  much  she  meant  for  jest,  and  how  much  for  earnest.  She 
looked  ready  to  burst  into  tears,  as  she  said  earnestly : 

"  Uncle  John,  you  will  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  Dr.  Beau- 
fort and  I  are  only  friends,  and  have  never  exchanged  a  sinjrle 
word  which  either  of  us  might  not  have  spoken  to  the  most  in- 
different person  at  the  Springs." 

Uncle  John  saw  that  the  subject  was  painful  to  her,  and  he 
tried  to  stop  Eva,  but  he  did  not  succeed  until  she  had  said  : 

"Well,  that  may  be  true  now,  but  it  will  not  be  so  long,  if  ap- 
pearances are  to  be  relied  upon.  Dr.  Beaufort  is  coming  next 
week,  and  his  actions  will  speak  for  themselves,  and  Uncle  John 
will  decide  which  is  right,  you  or  I." 

During  the  intervening  time  before  Charles  was  expected,  he 
was  much  talked  of  by  Eva  and  Uncle  John.  Julia  never  spoke 
of  him,  though  she  thought  much  more  about  him  than  she  was 
willing  to  do.  She  was  striving  hard  to  overcome  feelings  that 
were  strong  and  powerful,  when  she  first  discovered  their  exist- 
ence, and  she  was  surprised  to  find  that  they  so  stubbornly  re- 
sisted her  efforts  to  subdue  them.  She  deemed  it,  however,  pos- 
sible to  eradicate  them.  She  knew  that  it  was  right,  and  she 
was  resolved  to  do  it.  She  regretted  the  necessity  of  meeting 
him  again  so  soon,  and  if  she  could  have  been  consulted,  she 
would  much  rather  that  his  visit  to  Uncle  John  might  have  been 
deferred  until  she  felt  sure  that  she  could  meet  him  with  indiffer- 
ence of  heart  as  well  as  of  manner. 

Uncle  John  had  promised  Eva  to  bring  him  out  to  the  Hall 
the  very  day  of  his  arrival  in  Hopedale.  Julia  knew  when  he 
was  expected,  and  she  spent  a  restless  and  uncomfortable  day, 
trying  to  school  herself  to  meet  him  with  proper  calmness  and 
indifference;  but  her  heart  bounded  and  her  cheeks  flushed  when, 
in  the  afternoon,  she -saw  Uncle  John's  buggy  drive  through  the 
lower  gate.  She  wa'tched  it  as  it  approached,  and  saw,  with 
mingled  regret  and  satisfaction,  that  there  was  no  stranger  in  it; 
Uiicle  John  was  alone. 

She  asked  no  question;  but  she  did  not  have  to  wait  long  for 
the  explanation,  which  Eva  hastily  elicited. 

Instead  of  the  gentleman  himself,  there  had  come  a  letter  re- 
gretting his  inability  to  fulfill  his  promise.  He  had  been  suddenly 
summoned  home  to  make  immediate  preparations  to  sail  for 
Europe ;  his  father  wished  him  to  complete  his  course  of  medical 
study  in  Paris. 


CAMERON  HALL. 


75 


"And  so  ends  our  little  romance  I"  exclaimed  Eva,  discon- 
tentedly. "I  had  fixed  my  heart  upon  seeing  its  denoue- 
ment." 

"You  need  not  give  up  yet,  Eva,"  said  Uncle  John.  "You 
may  still  have  that  pleasure  at  some  future  day.  He  says  that 
he  hopes  yet  to  pay  me  the  promised  visit." 

"  How  long  does  our  hero  expect  to  be  gone  ?" 

"  Probably  two  years." 

"Two  years,  Uncle  John  I     Then,  indeed,  I  might  as  well 

give  up !" 

"  Why,  Eva,"  said  Uncle  John,  laughing,  "  you  are  the  very 
last  person  from  whose  lips  I  should  expect  to  hear  such  senti- 
ments. A  romantic  young  lady  like  yourself  is  expected  to  think 
that  love  is  undying,  unchanging,  eternal,  etc.  etc.  I" 

"I  may  be  romantic,  Uucle  John,  but  I  am  not  therefore 
necessarily  unreasonable,  and  I  don't  think  it  probable  that  feel- 
ings, whose  root  is  only  the  growth  of  two  or  three  weeks,  will 
survive  the  separation  of  two  years ;  but  whether  they  will  or  not, 
I  am  very  sorry  that  Dr.  Beaufort  did  not  come." 

"And  so  am  I.  I  anticipated  great  pleasure  from  seeing  Wil- 
liam Beaufort's  son." 

"And  I,"  thought  Julia,  "will  see  to  it,  that  in  two  years 
every  remembrance  of  him  is  rooted  out  of  my  heart.  If  we 
ever  meet  again,  it  must  be,  as  we  met  at  first,  as  strangers :  I 
have  found  out  that  he  and  I  cannot  be  friends  1" 


CHAPTER  YIII. 


y 


Charles  BEAuroRT  had  been  gone  a  year,  and  in  that  interval 
he  had  written  two  or  three  times  to  Uncle  John,  and  through 
him  had  sent  kind  remembrances  to  Mr.  Cameron  and  his 
daughters,  just  such  messages  as  he  might  have  sent  to  any 
other  indifferent  acquaintances.  Julia  believed  that  she  had 
finally  conquered  all  her  interest  in  him,  and  that  she  had  learned 
to  regard  him  as  she  did  the  many  others  whom  she  met  at  the 
same  time  and  whom  she  now  scarcely  ever  thought  of.  There 
was  no  change  in  the  quiet  family  circle  at  Cameron  Hall ;  but 
in  the  political  world  the  cloud,  which  years  ago  statesmen  had 
seen  and  feared,  though  then  "no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand," 
now  loomed  up  dark  and  black  above  the  horizon,  and  threatened 


76  CAMERON     HALL. 

to  cover  the  nation  with  a  pall  of  darkness.  The  country  was 
shaken  to  its  very  center,  and  the  eyes  of  the  nation  were  strained 
anxiously  as  if  to  pierce  the  veil  of  the  future.  The  Presidential 
election  was  close  at  hand;  in  its  uncertain  balance  trembled  the 
fate  of  the  nation;  and  the  ballot-box  was  to  decide  whether  its 
government  was  to  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  conservative 
Executive,  who  would  respect  the  rights  and  liberties  of  all,  or 
in  the  hands  of  a  sectional  partisan,  who  would  deny  to  a  portion 
of  the  country  the  rights  secured  to  it  by  the  Constitution. 
Great  was  the  diversity  of  opinion  with  regard  to  the  final  result. 
Southern  politicians  urged  dismemberment,  and  declared  that  it 
could  be  accomplished  without  bloodshed;  and  Northern  fanati- 
cism urged  the  election  of  a  sectional  President  on  the  ground 
that  the  South  was  too  weak  and  cowardly  to  attempt  resist- 
ance ;  but  the  thoughtful  and  far-seeing  of  both  sections  looked 
on  with  trembling  anxiety  and  apprehension,  and  their  hearts 
were  failing  them  for  fear  of  the  terrible  vortex  of  civil  war  into 
which  they  believed  that  the  nation  was  about  to  plunge.  Mean- 
while, the  fourth  of  November  sealed  the  nation's  fate. 

A  few  weeks  passed  by,  and  South  Carolina  was  the  first  to 
speak,  through  the  voice  of  her  people  in  convention  assembled, 
her  determination  to  sever  the  bonds  that  bound  her  in  the 
Federal  Union.  Georgia,  Alabama,  Mississippi  followed,  and 
Secession  was  an  accomplished  fact:  whether  or  not  it  would  be 
followed  by  bloodshed,  was  yet  to  be  proved. 

It  was  a  gloomy  afternoon  in  January,  with  a  fitful,  howling 
wind,  driving  along  thick  masses  of  cloud,  which  seemed  hesi- 
tating whether  to  fall  in  rain  or  snow.  The  warmth  and  genial 
glow  of  the  library  at  Cameron  Hall,  with  its  blazing  fire,  its 
comfortable  arm-chairs,  and  its  well-stored  book-cases,  formed  a 
pleasing  contrast  to  the  dreariness  without;  and  yet  in  the  circle 
gathered  around  the  fire,  there  were  grave  faces  and  anxious 
looks,  which  were  more  in  consonance  with  the  gloominess  with- 
out than  with  the  cheerfulness  within. 

There  had  been  a  long  pause,  which  was  at  last  broken  by 
Uncle  John,  who  said,  rather  as  if  in  reply  to  something  that 
had  been  said  before,  than  as  if  projecting  a  new  theme  of  con- 
versation : 

"  Yes,  everything  seems  quiet  now,  but  I  am  afraid  that  it  is  a 
treacherocs  stillness,  from  which  we  will  be  startled  before  long 
by  the  firing  of  the  gun." 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  "what  do  you  mean  by  the  firing  of 
the  gun  ?" 

"I  mean,  my  daughter,"  he  replied,  gravely,  "the  ushering  in 
of  war,  civil  war,  the  most  terrible  calamity  that  can  overtake  a 


CAMERON    HALL.  77 

nation.  I  think  it  may  come  soon,  even  sooner  than  any  of  us 
expect ;  and  I  should  not  be  surprised  at  any  moment  to  hear  of 
a  declaration  of  war." 

"I  sympathize  with  your  fears  of  the  final  result,"  said  Mr. 
Cameron ;  "but  I  have  no  idea  that  the  catastrophe  is  so  near  at 
hand.  I  believe  that  the  statesmen  on  both  sides  will  be  slow  to 
engage  in  a  war  which  involves  an  element  that  will  make  it  the 
most  terrible  and  destructive  civil  war  ever  waged.  I  mean  the 
element  of  servile  insurrection." 

"  This  consideration  might  possibly  affect  the  South  if  she  were 
the  aggressor,  but  for  the  very  reason  that  this  element  would 
operate  so  disastrously  against  her,  the  Xorth  will  be  less  reluctant 
to  enter  upon  the  contest.  As  far  as  the  South  is  concerned,  we 
have  no  longer  any  voice  in  the  matter.  Some  of  the  Southern 
States  have  already  seceded,  others  are  evidently  about  to  fol- 
low ;  it  only  remains  for  the  Federal  Grovernment  to  say  if  they 
shall  go  in  peace.     The  decision  is  easily  foreseen." 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  "Commissioners  from  the  South 
are  going  to  Washington  to  see  what  can  be  done.  Perhaps 
now,  after  all,  matters  may  be  adjusted  to  the  satisfaction  of  both 
sections." 

"  I  wish  it  might  be  so,  sir ;  but  indeed  I  cannot  see  what 
there  is  to  adjust.  The  question  now  is  narrowed  down  to  a 
single  point :  shall  the  seceded  States  go  in  peace,  or  shall  the 
effort  be  made  to  whip  them  back  into  the  Union  ? — a  Union 
which  has  been  for  years  more  in  name  than  in  heart  and  reality. 
No,  Mr.  Cameron.  Time  was,  when  this  question  might  have 
been  settled  peaceably,  but  I  am  afraid  that  that  time  is  passed 
now.  You  yourself  hav^e  seen  how  restless  the  South  has  long 
been  growing  under  Northern  aggression,  and,  considering  her 
reputation  for  hot  blood,  I  Ihink  she  has  borne  with  wonderful 
forbearance  the  narrowing  and  paring  down  of  her  rights.  This, 
though  done  stealthily,  and  through  the  course  of  years,  she  has 
watched  with  a  jealous  eye,  and  has  been  inore  than  once  roused 
to  an  indignant  protest  against  her  wrongs,  and  to  threats  that 
she  would  sever  her  bonds  with  the  Federal  Union ;  but  her 
wrath  has  been  appeased  from  time  to  time,  and  the  danger 
averted  by  compromises.  These  she  has  found,  by  experience, 
were  all  hollow,  and  meant  nothing  more,  on  the  part  of  the 
Korth,  than  a  patient  waiting  for  a  more  convenient  season, 
when  she  would  be  less  on  the  alert  or  more  tamely  submissive. 
At  last  the  mask  has  been  thrown  off,  and  the  North  stands  re- 
vealed, by  the  Presidential  election,  in  direct  and  avowed  antago- 
nism to  Southern  rights  and  institutions.     Now,  brought  face  to 


78  CAMERON    HALL. 

face  with  the  issue,  the  South  is  compelled  to  speak  distinctly, 
decidedly.  She  has  done  so,  and  has  declared  her  determination 
herself  to  try  to  guard,  by  a  constitution  and  government  of  her 
own,  the  rights  which  the  Constitution  and  Government  of  the 
United  States,  in  the  hands  of  fanaticism,  have  proved  insufficient 
to  protect.  And  she  is  right.  Up  to  a  certain  poiut  forbear- 
ance is  a  virtue,  and  that  point  the  South  has  already  reached. 
Tame  submission  to  oppression  and  wrong  is  cowardice;  it  is 
what  she  has  never  done  and  never  will  do." 

"  Nor  would  I  have  her  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Cameron.  "I  would 
not  have  her  concede  a  single  right  guaranteed  her  by  the  Con- 
stitution; and  yet  I  have  always  thought  that  this  vexed  question 
was  susceptible  of  a  peaceable  solution,  and  I  believe  even  now, 
when  things  have  gone  so  far,  it  might  yet  be  done." 

"Perhaps  so  in  any  other  hands  than  those  of  Northern  fanat- 
icism. You  and  I  could  settle  it  in  five  minutes,  upon  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  old  Virginia  planter,  whose  rule  it  was  to  attend  to 
his  own  business,  and  leave  his  neighbors  to  attend  to  theirs.  If 
the  Xorth  would  agree  to  take  care  of  its  own  institutions,  and 
leave  us  to  take  care  of  ours,  there  would  be  at  once  an  end  of 
strife;  but  such  is  not  the  character  of  Northern  fanaticism, 
whose  stealthy  but  sure  encroachments  old  men  like  ourselves 
have  watched  for  years.  Now  it  dares  openly  and  defiantly  to 
lay  its  hand  upon  the  Constitution,  and  either  to  wrest  its  mean- 
ing, or,  bolder  still,  to  declare  that  it  is  defective,  because  it 
does  not  square  with  that  'higher  law'  which  it  professes  to  have 
found.  No,  sir!  with  this  to  contend  against,  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  a  peaceable  solution  of  this  problem.  Nothing  but  the 
sword  will  ever  cut  this  knot,  and  we  shall  soon  see  the  same 
busy  and  malignant  spirit,  that  found  employment  in  colonial 
days  in  burning  witches,  equally  busy  in  inciting,  in  the  South- 
ern States,  that  servile  insurrection  which  will  be  the  main  lever 
used  in  bringing  them  into  subjection." 

"The  breaking  up  of  this  Union  is  a  great  calamity,"  said 
Mr.  Cameron,  shaking  his  head  thoughtfully. 

"  So  it  is,  sir ;  but  I  believe  it  to  be  the  lesser  of  the  two  evils 
now  submitted  to  the  nation.  Between  oppression  and  dismem- 
berment there  can  be  but  one  choice." 

"  Old  Virginia  has  not  spoken  yet,  Uncle  John.  I  must  wait 
and  hear  what  she  says.  Never  rash,  always  conservative,  always 
weighing  consequences  before  she  takes  a  step,  I  know  that  I  can 
rely  upon  her  judgment,  and  am  willing  to  pledge  myself  before- 
hand to  indorse  her  decision." 

"I  cannot  go  quite  so  far,  Mr.  Cameron.  I  love  and  respect 
my  old  mother  State  perhaps  as  much  as  you  do,  and  believe 


CAMERON    HALL.  79 

that  I  shall  find  her  now,  as  I  have  ever  found  her  before,  in 
the  right.  I  do  not  believe  that,  under  existing  circumstances, 
she  will  stay  in  the  Union ;  but  if  she  should,  her  action  cannot 
alter  my  sense  of  right.  For  once,  I  shall  think  that  the  Old 
Dominion  was  lamentably  wrong  in  her  judgment.  She  has  been 
slower  to  speak  than  some  of  her  sisters ;  but  when  she  does,  be 
assured  that  it  will  be  in  as  bold  and  determined  a  voice  as 
theirs." 

"It  becomes  her  to  be  slow  in  taking  such  a  step.  Uncle  John. 
She  is  a  frontier  State ;  her  territory  will  be  the  battle-ground; 
her  heritage  will  be  the  first  to  be  laid  waste.  Indeed,  indeed, 
sir,  it  behooves  her  to  weigh  well  her  decision." 

"  So  it  does,  Mr.  Cameron.  She  ought  to  think  calmly  and 
deeply ;  not,  however,  so  much  of  the  consequences,  as  of  the 
right.  If  it  be  right  for  her  to  separate  herself  from  the  Federal 
Union  at  all,  she  ought  to  do  so  under  any  and  all  penalties.  If 
it  were  merely  a  question  of  expediency,  it  would  not  only  be 
proper,  but  it  would  be  her  duty  to  count  the  cost ;  but  in  a 
question  of  moral  right  and  wrong,  she  has  nothing  to  do  with 
consequences." 

"Uncle  John,"  interrupted  Eva,  "you  and  papa  have  talked 
about  the  war  with  such  gloomy  faces  and  sad  tones,  that  you 
have  almost  made  me  dread  it  more  than  anything  in  the  world. 
But  it  has  its  bright  side  too,  especially  for  us  young  people. 
Think  of  the  splendid  officers  and  gay  uniforms,  the  glittering 
swords  and  waving  plumes,  the  prancing  horses  and  bauds  of 
music  I  And  in  a  civil  war,  think  how  many  real  romances  there 
will  be ;  brothers  unexpectedly  finding  themselves  opposed  to 
each  other  in  battle ;  fathers  finding  their  sons  among  the  pris- 
oners that  they  themselves  have  taken  ;  and  girls  dying  of  broken 
hearts  because  they  discover  their  lovers  among  the  ranks  of  the 
enemy!" 

"  My  poor  child  !"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  compassionately.  "  God 
grant  that  you  may  never  know  more  of  the  horrors  of  war  than 
you  have  learned  from  reading  your  innocent  romances.  The 
plumes,  the  swords,  and  the  uniforms  may  all  be  very  beautiful 
and  attractive ;  but  under  their  glittering  exterior  are  concealed 
desolation  and  ruin  and  bloodshed,  outrage,  oppression,  and 
murder,  insult  and  brutality !  Ah !  my  daughter,  all  the  gay 
bands  of  music  upon  earth,  blending  into  one  loud  and  magnifi- 
cent orchestra,  could  not  drown  the  wail  of  a  whole  nation's 
widowed  and  orphaned  hearts  1  Of  all  evils  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth,  may  God,  in  his  wisdom  and  justice,  visit  us  with  any 
other,  if  he  will  only  save  us  from  a  civil  war  !" 

"Amen  !"  said  Uncle  John,  solemnly. 


80  CAMERON    HALL. 

ft 

There  was  a  pause,  and  presently  Mr.  Cameron  said,  as  if 
thinking  aloud  : 

"At  what  a  fearful  cost  must  the  South  purchase  her  independ- 
ence— if,  indeed,  she  should  ever  be  able  to  purchase  it  at  all !" 

"Fearful  cost,  indeed,"  repeated  Uncle  John,  "not  only  of 
treasure,  but  of  blood;  and  that,  too,  the  best  blood  of  the  land. 
It  will  be  in  this  respect,  as  well  as  in  others,  a  most  unequal 
contest.  Their  ranks  will  be  principally  filled  with  the  refuse 
population  of  European  cities;  ours  will  be  made  up  of  the  best 
men  of  the  country,  the  flower  of  Southern  youth,  the  glory  of 
Southern  manhood.  Yes,  the  price  of  Southern  independence 
will  be  costly  ;  but  I  believe  that  it  will  be  paid  without  a  mur- 
mur." 

"You  speak,  Uncle  Jolin,  as  if  the  result  were  beyond  a  per- 
adventure.  Are  you  quite  sure  that  the  South  will  be  able  to 
maintain  such  an  unequal  contest  ?  Does  it  not  well  become  the 
people  to  weigh  the  probabilities  of  success  before  they  under- 
take it?  A  civil  war  cannot  leave  us  as  it  found  us.  If  we 
succeed  in  gaining  our  independence,  well  and  good  ;  but  if  not, 
our  position  in  the  Federal  Union  will  not  be  what  it  is  now. 
If  we  embark  in  this  war,  we  stake  our  all  upon  the  issue,  and 
must  be  content  to  accept  either  independence  or  subjugation." 

"I  know  it,  sir.  I  believe  that  I  have  a  just  estimate,  not 
only  of  the  cost  of  this  war,  but  also  of  its  risks,  its  uncertainties, 
and  the  doubtfulness  of  the  final  issue.  I  am  not  confident,  I  am 
only  hopeful.  "  I  do  not,  like  some  of  our  politicians,  shut  my 
eyes  to  the  odds  against  us,  and  want  our  people  to  rush  blind- 
folded into  it ;  but  I  would  have  them  like  men,  like  freemen, 
look  the  thing  calmly  and  steadily  in  the  face,  and  choose  between 
two  evils  now  offered  them.  The  choice  they  are  obliged  to 
make.  The  overgrown  power  of  one  section  of  this  Union  now 
offers  to  the  other  abject  submission  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on 
the  other,  resistance  even  unto  blood.  I,  for  one,  can  choose 
between  them ;  and  I  believe  that  the  majority  of  Southern  men 
will  feel  as  I  do.  It  may,  as  you  say,  become  the  nation  to 
weigh  well  the  probabilities  of  success  ;  but,  in  my  humble  judg- 
ment, it  becomes  it  equally  well  to  maintain  its  rights,  and  resist 
their  infringement.  Were  the  result  even  more  doubtful  than  I 
think  it  to  be,  I  would  be  willing  to  make  the  experiment,  be- 
cause I  do  not  believe  any  other  course  to  be  consistent  with 
manly  or  national  honor." 

"  But  if  we  should  fail ! " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Cameron,  that  is  indeed  a  tremendous  if,  fraught 
with  consequences  which  you  and  I  cannot  now  conceive.  But, 
sir,  our  case  is*  desperate.     We  are  somewhat  in  the  condition 


CAMERON    HALL.  81 

of  the  Syrian  lepers ;  and,  like  theirs,  our  efforts  to  extricate 
ourselves  must  be  desperate.  We  must  do  our  best,  and  if  we 
fail,  we  can  but  fail. ^^ 

"But,  Uncle  John,  you  just  now  admitted  that  failure  would 
only  make  our  condition  worse  than  it  is." 

"  So  I  did ;  but,  «ir,  I  believe  it  to  be  more  right  and  manly 
to  fail  in  the  defense  of  our  rights,  than  quietly  and  tamely  to 
surrender  them.  Submission  involves  disgrace ;  failure  does  not. 
I  would  rather  belong  to  the  South  overpowered,  defeated, 
crushed,  and  panting  with  a  hard  bat  fruitless  struggle,  than  to 
the  South  abjectly,  servilely  submissive." 

There  was  a  few  moments'  silence,  and  Mr.  Cameron  said, 
musingly : 

"  I  wish  that  there  never  had  been  a  negro  upon  this  conti- 
nent. They  have  been  from  the  very  beginning  a  source  of 
endless  discord  and  jarring."  ->^ 

"Do  you  think,  Mr.  Cameron,  that  the  negro  is  the  cause  of] 
this  threatened  war  ?  I  tell  you,  no.  Neither  North  nor  South  ' 
would  rend  this  government  for  all  the  negroes  upon  the  face  of 
the  earth.  Northern  aggression  has  seized  upon  this  institution 
as  a  pretext  for  curtailing  Southern  rights ;  and  S juthern  men 
will  spring  to  arms  and  gird  on  their  swords,  not  in  defense  of 
negro  slavery,  but  in  defense  of  those  many  rights,  of  which 
slavery  is  one,  guaranteed  them  by  the  Constitution  which  their 
fathers  helped  to  frame  and  seal  by  their  own  blood.  If  there 
were  no  such  thing  as  slavery,  the  North  would  find  some  other 
right  to  cut  short;  and  Southern  men  would  be  as  prompt  to 
defend  it.  This  will  be  no  war,  on  the  part  of  the  South,  in  de- 
fense of  negro  slavery ;  as  well  say  that  the  Revolution  was  a 
war  for  the  tea  overturned  in  Boston  harbor." 

Mr.  Cameron  made  no  reply;  and  presently  Eva  interrupted 
the  silence  by  exclaiming : 

"  Uncle  John,  I  am  so  glad  that  you  and  papa  are  too  old  to 
go  in  the  army,  and  Walter  is  too  young.  I  won't  have  any- 
body to  be  uneasy  about." 

"Walter  is  not  too  young,  my  daughter,  for  the  country  will 
have  need  of  all  her  sons ;  and  if  I  am  not  mistaken  in  the  boy,  he 
would  not  be  willing  to  let  other  young  men  fight  his  battles. 
Your  father  and  I  are  too  old  to  fight,  but  there  is  no  man  in  the 
South  so  old  that  he  cannot  do  something,  if  not  personally,  at 
least  with  his  means,  and  whatever  a  man  of  my  age  and  my 
means  can  do,  I  hope  to  be  found  willing  to  do." 

"  I  suspect.  Uncle  John,  that  if  we  really  have  a  war,  I  shall 
be  sorry  lor  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  am  a  woman.  If  I 
belonged  to  the  brave  sex,  I  should  be  among  the  first  to  vol- 
unteer. " 


82  CAMERON    nALL. 

m 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  my  enthusiastic  child.  But,  Eva,  your  sex 
need  not  prevent  your  usefahiess;  for  the  country  will  need  the 
help  of  her  daughters  as  well  as  of  her  sons." 

"  What  can  weak,  timid  women  do  ?  I  should  think  that  they 
would  be  a  great  clog  upon  the  energies  of  the  men  who  go  out 
to  fight." 

"  So  they  may  be,  my  daughter,  but  not  necessarily.  There 
will  be  much  in  the  way  of  active  work  that  women  can  do.  In 
sewing  and  knitting  for  the  soldiers,  and  in  nursing  the  sick  and 
wounded,  they  may  find,  if  they  desire  it,  ample  employment; 
and,  as  in  case  of  w>kr,  the  blockaded  ports  will  throw  the  people 
almost  entirely  upon  their  own  resources,  the  army  will  have  to 
look  to  the  women  of  the  South  for  a  large  part  of  the  material 
for  their  clothing.  But  if  none  of  all  this  should  be  required  of 
them,  still  there  is  something  for  them  to  do.  War  brings  many 
evils  in  its  train  besides  sickness,  wounds,  and  death.  There  are 
many  privations  which  will  bear  hard  upon  the  Southern  women, 
reared  as  they  generally  have  been  in  ease  and  luxury.     Many 

•  articles  of  food  now  looked  upon  as  necessaries  of  life  will  have 
to  be  given  up ;  many  articles  of  dress  now  necessary  to  a  lady's 
toilet  will  have  to  be  surrendered  ;  but  more  than  this,  husbands, 
fathers,  brothers,  sons,  and  lovers  will  leave  behind  them  sad- 
dened homes  and  aching  hearts,  and  the  true  Southern  woman 
who  would  serve  her  country  must  bear  up  bravely  and  cheer- 
fully under  these  privations  and  separations.     Her  complaints 

•  and  repinings  must  not  weaken  the  energies  and  clog  the  hands 
of  those  who'  need  the  whole  of  their  unfettered  manhood  to  do 
their  duty.  When  her  heart  is  heavy,  and  her  eyes  blinded  with 
tears,  she  must  buckle  on  the  armor  of  those  she  loves  best  on 
earth,  and  bid  them  go  serve  their  country,  without  fear  or  anxiety 
for  those  they  leave  behind.  A  woman  who  will  do  this  is  worthy 
of  her  name,  and  serves  her  country  as  truly  as  the  man  who 

■  encounters  the  more  palpable  hardships  and  dangers  of  the  camp 
and  the  battle-field.  From  her  sons  the  country  demands  active 
duty  ;  from  her  daughters,  patient  and  cheerful  endurance." 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Julia,  who  had  laid  down  her  sewing;  and 
had  listened  attentively  to  every  word,  "  I  know  now  what  I 
ought  to  do  in  case  of  war,  and  I  thank  you  for  it.  It  is  a  great 
help  to  have  our  duty  clearly  marked  out,  so  that  there  need  be 
no  delay,  no  hesitation  in  action." 

"  There  will  be  none  in  yours,  my  daughter,"  he  answered. 
"  I  wish  I  was  as  certain  of  every  woman  in  the  South  being 
found  at  her  post  and  doing  her  duty  as  I  am  of  you.  But,  see 
here,  girls,"  he  added,  "the  whole  afternoon  is  gone,  and  it  is 
time  this  moment  to  go  home,  and  I  have  not  mentioned  one 


CAMERON    HALL.  83. 

word  of  the  business  that  brought  me  out.  I  did  not  come  this 
afternoon  to  discuss  politics,  or  to  deliver  a  war-lecture ;  ray- 
business  is  solely  of  a  personal  nature." 

**  Well,  Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  "  there  is  time  enough  yet  for 
your  personal  concerns,  and  the  time  that  you  occupied  in  your 
war-lecture,  as  you  call  it,  was  not  lost.  Your  business  can  be 
settled  after  tea." 

"  But  I  did  not  intend  to  stay  to  tea,  Eva.  Old  men,  like  my- 
self, ought  to  be  at  home  in  the  chimney-corner  such  a  night  as 
this,  instead  of  driving  about  the  country.  However,  there  is  no 
help  for  it  now ;  I  must  stay,  for  I  cannot  go  home  until  I  have 
accomplished  what  I  came  for." 

When  they  went  back  into  the  library,  after  tea,  Julia  drew 
down  the  curtains,  arranged  the  fire,  and  brought  the  cigar-case 
to  her  father  and  Uncle  John.  Uncle  John  threw  himself  back 
in  the  luxurious  arm-chair,  and  with  the  blue  wreath  curling 
slowly  above  his  head,  seemed,  for  several  minutes,  lost  in  thought. 
Presently  he  said,  abruptly : 

"I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  lately,  Mr.  Cameron,  about 
Agnes's  blindness.  I  wonder  if  it  is  really  beyond  the  reach  of 
surgical  skill." 

"  That,  Uncle  John,  could  only  be  learned  from  the  surgeon 
himself,  and  it  is  well  worth  while  to  get  an  opinion  on  the  sub- 
ject. If  she  were  my  child,  and  he  gave  me  the  smallest  possi- 
ble hope  of  success,  I  should  not  hesitate  to  subject  her  to  the 
operation." 

"  Nor  would  I,  if  she  were  mine ;  but  that  is  the  difficulty. 
The  responsibility  is  one  that  I  dare  not  assume  for  another  per- 
son's child." 

"  What  does  her  mother  say  about  it  ?"  asked  Mr.  Cameron. 

"  I  have  never  spoken  to  her  on  the  subject ;  for  I  thought  it 
useless  to.excite  her  with  the  thought  until  I  had  some  definite 
plan  in  my  mind.  It  is  a  project  on  which  I  have  expended 
much  thought  to  very  little  purpose,  and  so  I  determined  to  come 
out  and  talk  to  you  and  Julia  on  the  subject,  thinking  that  per- 
haps we  three  might  decide  upon  some  feasible  plan.  The  first 
difficulty  in  the  Way  is  to  get  her  to  the  surgeon.  The  only  one 
that  I  know,  to  whom  I  am  willing  to  intrust  her,  lives  in  Paris."" 

"  In  Paris !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cameron,  with  two  or  three  sig- 
nificant puffs  of  his  cigar ;  "  why,  Uncle  John,  you  must  be 
crazy !" 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  such  a  Quixotic  expedition,  Mr. 
Cameron  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  it  Quixotic,  sir ;  I  think  it  simply  impossible. 
The  first  difficulty  in  your  way  will  not  be,  as  you  imagine,  to 


84  CAMERON     HALL. 

get  Agnes  to  the  surgeon ;  it  will  rather  be  to  gain  her  mother's 
consent  that  you  should  take  her  to  him  " 

"  I  have  not  been  unmindful,  sir,  of  that  difficulty  too  " 

"  Never  mind  difficulties,  Uncle  John,"  said  Julia,  cheerfully. 
"  If  you  are  right  in  what  you  propose  to  do,  the  difficulties  will 
either  gradually  disappear,  or  else  be  more  easily  overcome  than 
you  now  imagine.  If  you  think  that  there  is  the  least  hope  of 
Agnes's  recovering  her  sight,  and  are  willing  to  bear  the  expense, 
you  can  take  her  to  Paris;  and  if  I  were  in  your  place  I  would 
not  hesitate  to  do  it." 

"Why,  my  daughter,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cameron,  "you  are  talk- 
ing now  more  like  Eva  than  like  yourself.  I  should  have  ex- 
pected this  advice  from  her,  shutting  her  eyes  to  obstacles,  as  she 
always  does,  and  leaping  headlong  to  results ;  but  it  is  not  at  all  in 
keeping  with  your  practical  view  of  things  and  sound  judgment. 
Think  of  Agnes's  helplessness  ;  think  what  Uncle  John  would  do 
with  her,  away  from  her  mother,  during  the  pain  of  the  opera- 
tion, and  the  long  tedious  confinement  in  a  darkened  room  after- 
ward!" 

"  I  know  all  that,  papa.  I  know  that  it  will  not  be  a  pleasure 
trip  either  to  Agues  or  Uncle  John,  and  that  there  will  be  much 
inconvenience,  trouble,  and  anxiety  on  his  part,  probably  much 
suffering  on  hers,  and  perhaps  disappointment  on  the  part  of 
both.  But,  for  all  that,  I  think  it  is  worth  the  trial ;  and  if  it 
rested  with  me  to  make  the  decision,  I  would  not  hesitate  a  mo- 
ment." 

"  You  are  a  true,  brave  woman,  Julia,"  exclaimed  Uncle  John. 
"If  we  all  fixed  our  eyes  more  on  results  and  less  on  obstacles, 
there  would  be  fewer  failures  in  the  world  ;  but  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  I  never  can  shut  my  eyes  to  difficulties." 

"I  do  not  think  it  is  desirable  that  you  should,  Uncle  John," 
she  answered,  modestly.  "  On  the  contrary,  I  think  you  ought 
to  look  at  them,  weigh  them,  and  try  to  overcome  them,  but  not 
be  dismayed  by  them.  In  this  case,  however,  I  do  not  see  any 
that  even  at  first  seem  insurmountable.  They  are  grave  and 
serious,  but  I  think  you  will  find  that  you  can  overcome  them." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  one  that  your  father  mentioned 
just  now, — her  mother's  consent?  It  is  asking  a  great  deal  of  a 
mother  to  send  a  blind,  helpless  child  three  thousand  miles  away, 
to  submit  to  a  painful  operation,  the  result  of  which  is  doubtful 
at  the  best." 

"  So  it  is,  Uncle  John ;  but  against  that  sacrifice  the  mother 
must  weigh  the  possibility  of  giving  sight  to  that  blind  child. 
She  is  a  mother,  and  as  such  must  feel  keenly  the  pain  of  separa- 
tion under  such  circumstances ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  must, 


CAMERON    HALL.  85 

and  no  doubt  will,  feel  that  she  has  no  right  to  condemn  \er 
child  to  the  certainty  of  a  life-long  night,  rather  than  herself  en- 
dure the  suspense  and  anxiety  of  a  few  short  months.  No,  Uncle 
John,  I  do  not  think  that  you  need  fear  an  insurmountable  ob- 
stacle in  the  mother.  She  will  probably  be  startled  at  first  by  the 
proposition ;  but  the  more  she  thinks  of  it,  the  more  she  will  be 
convinced ^that  she  ought  to  accede  to  it.  I  think  that  you  will 
find  a  much  greater  difiiculty  in  gaining  the  consent  of  Agnes 
herself,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  her  mother  will  not  send  her 
unless  she  is  willing  to  go." 

"  Nor  would  I  compel  her,  Julia,  under  the  circumstances ;  but 
I  believe  that  if  I  can  gain  Grace's  hearty  co-operation,  she  can 
persuade  Agnes.     She  is  very  easily  influenced  by  her  mother." 

"Poor  little  Agnes  I"  said  Eva,  compassionately.  "Blind, 
helpless,  suffering,  and  among  strangers  1  Surely,  IJncle  John, 
you  are  not  going  to  take  her  alone,  without  even  a  servant !" 

"Yes,  Eva,  if  I  take  her  at  all,  it  must  be  under  all  these  dis- 
advantages. I  cannot  afford  more  than  the  expense  of  two,  be- 
sides the  surgeon's  fee,  which  will  be  a  heavy  one  if  he  performs  " 
an  operation.  Yes,  I  must  take  Agnes  alone.  I  shall  take 
good  care  of  her,  though,"  he  added,  cheerfully.  "You  have  no 
idea  what  a  good  nurse  old  Uncle  John  will  prove !" 

"I  don't  doubt  it  in  the  least,  Uncle  John,"  answered  Julia. 
"Agnes  may  want  her  mother,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  she  will 
not  suffer  for  want  of  any  attention  that  even  her  mother  could 
render.  You  will  be  the  sufferer  in  the  case,  for  it  will  be  a  very 
heavy  charge  upon  you." 

"  I  do  not  regard  that  at  all,  my  daughter.  Any  expense  or 
personal  inconvenience  must  be  accounted  as  the  dust  in  the 
balance  in  comparison  with  the  advantage  to  be  gained;  and 
even  if  the  experiment  should  prove  a  failure,  it  will  be  a  satis- 
faction to  know  that  we  have  tried  every  means." 

"  Is  there  no  surgeon  in  this  country  that  would  do  as  well  as 
the  one  in  Paris  ?"  asked  Mr.  Cameron. 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir.  The  one  that  I  am  going  to  in  Paris  I 
do  know  both  professionally  and  personally.  He  stands  at  the 
head  of  his  profession  there,  and  inasmuch  as  the  opinion  of  no 
other  man  now  living  could  entirely  satisfy  me,  I  prefer  to  sub- 
mit the  case  to  him  at  once.  If  he  tells  me  that  nothing  can  be 
done  for  her,  I  shall  believe  it." 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  "don't  let  him  operate  on  her  eyes 
unless  he  is  sure  of  success.  It  would  be  dreadful  to  subject  the 
child  to  unnecessary  suffering." 

"  He  himself,  Eva,  will  be  the  best  judge  of  that.  If  I  put 
Agnes  in  his  hands,  it  will  be  to  do  with  her  as  he  thinks  best, 

8 


86  CAMERON    HALL. 

\ifijtli  this  one  condition ;   if  he  thinks  the  resnlt  very  doubtfnl,  I 
will  not  subject  her  to  the  operation  without  her  entire  consent.- 
I  shall  make  this  promise  both  to  herself  and  her  mother  before  I 
take  her  from  home." 

"Uncle  John,"  asked  Eva,  "  what  is  that  paper  in  your  hand 
that  yon  have  been  twistinf^  into  a  little  roll  for  the  last  half  hour  ? 
If  it  ever  was  worth  anything,  it  cannot  be  so  now."    , 

"Thank  you,  for  reminding  me,  Eva.  My  thoughts  are  so 
engrossed  with  one  subject  to-night,  that  I  have  forgotten  all 
else.  This  is  a  letter  that  I  received  this  morning  from  your 
friend,  the  doctor;  I  brought  it  out  for  you  to  read,  and  but  for 
your  question  I  should  have  carried  it  back  with  me.  He  writes 
from  Rome,  and  the  letter  is  brimful  of  Italy.  The  boy  can  scarcely 
find  words  to  express  himself,  and  is  continually  entangling  him- 
self in  a  maze  of  superlatives,  or  tripping  up  and  coming  to  a 
dead  stop,  because  language  fails  him.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  a 
young  life  so  full  of  keen  relish  and  ardent  enthusiasm.  Charles 
is  like  yon,  Eva.  You  and  he  look  at  the  barefooted  monk, 
encircled  by  a  hempen  cord,  the  black-eyed  beggar  child,  with 
her  golden  ornaments,  and  the  swarming  lazzaroni,  as  so  many 
picturesque  figures  in  the  great  picture  of  Italy  ;  while  your  more 
practical  sister  there  looks  deeper  than  the  surface,  and  sees 
underneath  it  all  the  ignorance,  superstition,  degradation,  and 
vice  that  cling  like  the  plague  spot  of  leprosy  to  that  fair  and 
classic  land.  This  letter  is  full  of  paintings  and  statues,  of  St. 
Peter's  and  the  Forum,  and  Colosseum  and  the  Capitol,  of  the 
Dying  Gladiator  and  the  Bronze  Wolf.  Oh,  Era  1  you  will 
revel  in  it;  Julia,  1  am  afraid,  will  think  it  a  little  too  high- 
strung." 

"I  am  a  practical  person  myself,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered, 
without  making  any  allusion  to  the  letter  ;  "but  I  do  not  object 
to  romance  in  others,  except,"  she  added  with  a  glance  at  Eva, 
"  when  it  is  so  excessive  that  it  scorns  those  everyday  duties  so 
necessary  to  the  comfort  of  a  family." 

"Now,  Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  "if  you  believe  sister,  you 
will  think  that  I  never  did  a  useful  thing  in  my  life,  when  only 
this  morning  I  helped  to  wash  the  tea  things  !" 

"  Why,  Eva,  you  don't  tell  me  so  1"  said  Uncle  John,  laugh- 
ing. "  You  certainly  did  not  come  down  from  the  clouds  so  low 
as  that  I" 

"Yes,  sir,  she  did,"  said  Julia;  "and,  more  than  that,  she 
actually  laid  aside  her  novel  while  she  did  it !" 

"  Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there  !"  exclaimed  Uncle  John.  "  From 
love,  and  romance,  and  sentiment,  down  to  washing  tea  things  1" 

"  Come,  come,  Uncle  John,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  "  you  and 


CAMERON    HALL.  87 

Julia  must  not  be  too  severe  upon  the  child.  You  will  yet  see 
her  one  of  these  days  a  famous  housewife." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  pulling  one  of  her  curls  ;  "  who  knows  but 
when  I  come  back  from  Europe  I  may  find  her  making  preserves 
and  pickles,  and  attending  to  the  dairy  as  industriously  and  as 
successfully  as  her  sister." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  be  going  to  stay  a  long  time,  then," 
said  Julia,  quietly. 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  stay,  Uncle  John  ?"  asked 
Eva. 

"  That  depends  upon  circumstances.  If  there  is  no  war,  I 
shall  return  in  September  or  October ;  I  wish  to  spend  the  hot 
months  in  Switzerland,  with  Agnes :  but  if  war  is  declared,  I 
shall  return  the  very  moment  that  it  is  safe  to  bring  her." 

"  I  believe,  in  that  event,  I  would  stay  there  until  it  was  over  ; 
but  no,  you  could  not  do  that  either,  for  you  could  not  keep 
Agnes  so  long  away  from  her  mother." 

"  I  should  not  remain,  under  any  circumstances,  Eva.  If  the 
country  is  plunged  in  war,  every  man  should  be  at  home  ready  to 
do  his  duty. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


A  FEW  days  afterward,  Grace  called  Agnes  away  from  the 
organ,  saying : 

"  Come  here,  my  daughter,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

There  was  a  constraint  and  rigidity  in  her  tone  which  the  child 
detected  at  once,  and  she  asked,  half  frightened  : 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter,"  she  replied,  quietly.  "  I  only 
want  to  talk  to  you." 

Agnes  took  her  seat  in  the  little  chair  by  her  mother's  side,  and 
took  hold  of  her  hand,  which  was  a -habit  she  had  whenever  she  was 
talking  to  her. 

Grace  turned  her  head  aside,  just  in  time  to  prevent  a  tear  from 
falling  upon  the  little  hand. 

As  Julia  had  predicted,  Grace  had  been  startled  by  Uncle  John's 
proposition,  but  she  had  carefully  reflected  upon  it  before  she 
gave  an  answer.  At  first,  she  felt  that  a  separation  from  her 
helpless  child  at  such  a  crisis  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a 
moment ;  she  did  not  believe  that  human  skill,  could  give  her 


88  CAMERON    HALL. 

sight,  and  she  thought  that  the  torture  that  she  must  necessarily 
undergo,  would  be,  in  the  event  of  failure,  nothing  less  than 
cruelty.  The  longer,  however,  that  she  reflected  upon  it,  the  clearer 
her  duty  became,  and,  as  Julia  had  said,  she  felt  that  the  mother's 
selfish  feeling  must  give  way  to  the  best  interests  of  the  child. 
By  far  the  bitterest  element  in  her  grief  was  the  thought  of 
Agnes's  loneliness  among  strangers  and  foreigners ;  her  own  sus- 
pense and  anxiety  were  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  vain  and 
helpless  longing  of  that  childish  heart  for  her  mother's  care  and 
love.  But  even  all  this  she  dared  not  weigh  for  an  instant  against 
the  bare  possibility  of  her  recovered  sight.  Agnes's  life  was 
lonely  and  desolate  enough  now,  with  her  mother  to  take  care  of 
her ;  what  would  it  be  if  she  should  outlive  that  mother,  as  she 
probably  would  do,  and  should  be  left  without  parent,  brother,  or 
sister,  to  lighten  her  darkness  or  comfort  her  loneliness  ?  Could 
she  doom  her  to  such  a  life  because  she  had  not  the  fortitude  to 
endure  the  pain  of  separation  ?  These  were  thoughts  that  she 
had  carefully  weighed,  and  her  duty  was  now  very  clear.  Since 
Providence  had  opened  the  way  and  provided  the  means  for  the 
experiment,  it  was  her  part  thankfully  to  receive  what  might 
prove  the  greatest  blessing  of  her  life,  and  bravely  to  bear  up 
under  its  accompanying  trials.  She  did  not  mention  the  subject 
to  Agnes  for  several  days.  Indeed,  the  very  sight  of  the  child 
was  painful,  and  she  had  talked  as  little  as  possible  to  her  upon 
any  subject,  fearing,  lest  by  some  unconscious  word  or  tone,  she 
might  betray  to  the  quick  ear  that  she  had  some  unusual  sorrow. 
She  had  promised  Uncle  John  to  do  her  best  to  persuade  Agnes, 
but  she  would  not  consent  to  compel  her;  she  would  reason  with 
her  calmly  and  truthfully,  neither  ignoring  nor  disguising  the 
probable  suffering,  and  trying  to  make  her  realize  the  possible 
benefit,  and  then  she  would  leave  her  to  decide  for  herself.  She 
had  been  trying  for  days  to  fortify  herself,  before  talking  to 
Agnes  about  it,  and  she  felt  truly  thankful  that  the  child,  in  her 
darkness,  was  all  unconscious  of  the  struggle  that  was  going  on 
in  her  mother's  breast,  so  evident  to  others  in  her  haggard  face 
and  tearful  eyes. 

She  thought  that  she  was  now  able  to  talk  it  over  calmly ; 
but  the  intuition  that  had  caught  alarm  from  the  tone  of  her 
very  first  words,  told  her  how  very  far  she  had  overestimated 
her  self-control. 

The  tears  fell  rapidly  from  her  eyes,  and  she  tried  in  vain  to 
keep  them  back;  but  they  flowed  silently,  and  were  unsuspected  by 
the  blind  child,  who  could  not  understand  the  stillness.  She  waited 
several  minutes,  and  then  said  : 

"  Why  don't  you  talk,  mother  ?     You  said  you  wanted  to  talk 


CAMERON    HALL.  89 

to  me  ?  Your  voice  sounds  strange  and  troubled ;  are  you  troubled, 
mother?" 

The  little  hand  wandered  in  search  of  the  mother's  face,  to 
learn  by  its  unerring  touch  if  it  were  smooth  and  calm,  or  stained 
with  tears. 

Grace  quickly  caught  it,  and  holding  it  firmly  in  her  own, 
summoned  all  her  self-control,  and  said  : 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  Your 
mother  and  Uncle  John  and  all  your  friends  are  grieved  at  your 
blindness  and  helplessness,  and  if  it  is  possible,  would  do  anythino- 
to  give  you  sight  like  other  children.  Uncle  John  knows  one 
physician,  and  only  one,  that  he  would  be  willing  to  trust  you 
with,  and  he  lives  a  long  distance  from  here  ;  but  if  you  will  con- 
sent, Uncle  John  says  that  he  himself  will  take  you  to  him,  and 
stay  with  you  and  nurse  you  if  an  operation  is  performed  on  your 
eyes ;  and,  with  God's  blessing,  he  may  bring  you  home  with  eyes 
as  keen  and  far-seeing  as  those  of  any  of  your  little  companions. 
It  may  be,  my  daughter,  that  you  need  not  wait  to  get  to  heaven 
to  learn  what  light  and  sunshine  are.  What  do  you  say, 
Agnes  ?" 

"  Where  is  he  going  to  take  me,  mother  ?" 

"  To  Paris,  Agnes." 

"  To  Paris !  that  big  city  you  told  me  was  so  far  across  the 
water  ?" 

"Yes,  my  daughter,  there." 

"  How  far  from  home  is  it,  mother  ?" 

"More  than  three  thousand  miles." 

"  You  said  something  about  an  operation  upon  my  eyes  ;  what 
do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"It  is  to  cut  something  out  of  your  eyes  with  sharp  instru- 
ments ;  or  perhaps  to  put  something  into  them  to  heal  them  of 
the  disease  that  prevents  you  from  seeing." 

"Will  it  hurt  me  much?" 

"  Yes,  my  child,  I  suspect  that  it  will  be  very  painful ;  not 
only  at  the  time,  but  for  weeks  afterward,  when  you  will  have  to 
stay  in  a  dark  room,  and  suffer  much  from  the  inflammation." 

"  Where  will  you  be,  mother,  when  Uncle  John  is  nursing  me  ?'^ 

"I  shall  be  at  home,  Agnes,"  she  replied,  with  a  pang,  "  pray- 
ing that  my  Heavenly  Father  will  give  light  and  gladness  to  my 
blind  child." 

"At  home,  mother  1"  almost  screamed  the  child.  "At  home  ! 
you  at  home,  and  I  three  thousand  miles  away  suffering  so  much, 
with  a  strange  doctor  and  strange  people  all  around  me,  and  no 
friend  but  Uncle  John  !  Oh,  mother  I  what  do  you,  what  can 
you  mean  ?" 

8* 


90  CAMERON    HALL. 

The  mother's  resolution  was  fast  giving  way ;  and  instead  of 
persuading  Agnes,  the  child  was  rapidly  convincing  her  of  tl>e 
impracticability  of  the  whole  scheme.  Nevertheless,  she  was 
determined  to  be  faithful  to  her  promise  to  Uncle  John,  and  use 
her  best  efforts  to  persuade. 

"Agnes,"  she  said,  "listen  to  me.  You  think  that  Uncle  John 
loves  you  very  much,  because  he  gave  you  your  organ,  and  is 
always  doing  something  to  make  you  happy;  but  all  that  he  has 
ever  done  for  you  in  his  life,  is  nothing  in  comparison  with  what 
he  proposes  to  do  for  you  now.  It  will  cost  him  a  great  deal  of 
money ;  but  that  is  not  all.  Uncle  John  is  now  an  old  man, 
and  old  men  who  have  a  comfortable  home  do  not  like  to  leave 
it  and  wander  about  in  strange  places  among  strange  people. 
Now  he  is  willing  not  only  to  incur  all  this  expense,  but  also  to 
endure  trouble  and  inconvenience,  to  say  nothing  of  the  great 
anxiety  that  he  will  feel  in  taking  you  away  from  your  mother ; 
he  is  willing  to  bear  all  this  to  try  to  give  you  sight.  Now, 
Agnes,  don't  you  see  how  much  Uncle  John  loves  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  see  it,  and  I  love  him  for  it ;  but,"  she  added 
decidedly  and  peremptorily,  "I  shall  not  go  with  him." 

"And  be  always  blind,  my  daughter  ?" 

She  thought  a  little  while,  and  answered,  sadly: 

"Yes,  mother,  always  blind.     I  cannot  go  away  from  you.'^ 

"Well,  Agnes,  I  shall  not  insist  upon  it,  for  I  only  promised 
Uncle  John  to  persuade  you ;  you  must  decide  for  yourself." 

Grace  could  not  determine  whether  Agnes's  decision  gave  her 
most  pleasure  or  pain.  She  felt  that  it  would  be  a  great  satis- 
faction to  have  tried  the  experiment,  even  if  it  should  prove  un- 
successful ;  and  yet  it  was  a  feeling  of  inQnite  relief  to  shut  out 
from  her  thoughts  that  prospect  of  anxiety  and  sorrow  which  she 
so  much  dreaded. 

Agnes  was  generally  easily  controlled  by  the  slightest  expres- 
sion of  her  mother's  wishes ;  and  very  rarely  in  her  life  had  she 
taken  such  a  decided  stand  in  opposition  to  them.  Grace  was 
never  accustomed  to  use  harsher  means  with  her  than  persuasion  ; 
and  she  was  especially  unwilling  to  do  so  in  the  present  instance. 
It  was  a  weakness ;  but  one  which  might  readily  be  pardoned 
with  such  a  subject  as  a  blind  child,  and  under  such  circumstances. 

For  some  minutes  they  both  sat  perfectly  still,  Grace  watching 
Agnes's  face,  which  plainly  betrayed  some  internal  struggle.  The 
blind  face  was  almost  rigid  in  its  earnestness  and  severity  of  ex- 
pression; and  the  lines  worked  convulsively  around  her  mouth, 
as  she  said  : 

"Mother,  tell  me;  is  it  right  for  me  to  go?  Is  it  wrong  to 
say  I  will  not?" 


CAMEKON    HALL.  91 

"Yes,  my  child,  I  think  it  is.  Agnes,*  I  will  suffer  more  in  the 
separation  than  you  will ;  God  only  knows  how  I  can  bear  it ; 
but  I  believe  that  He  has  placed  these  means  in  your  way,  and 
that*you  and  I  ought  to  be  willing  to  use  them,  in  order  to  secure 
for  you,  if  possible,  the  greatest  of  earthly  blessings." 

"  Will  I  certainly  get  my  eyesight,  if  I  bear  all  this  pain  and 
suffering  ?" 

"  No,  my  daughter,  it  is  not  certain ;  it  is  only  an  experiment, 
and  may  not  be  successful;  but  all  that  you  or  we  can  do  is  to 
try." 

**Is  it  possible  for  me  to  die,  mother,  when  the  doctor  operates 
on  my  eyes  ?" 

Poor  Grace  felt  as  if  each  successive  word  stabbed  her  with  a 
keener  pang ;  but  she  answered,  quietly : 

"It  is  possible,  Agnes;  bui  I  do  not  think  it  is  probable." 

"It  would  be  hard  enough,"  said  Agnes,  thoughtfully,  "to  suf- 
fer so  far  away  from  mother;  but  it  would  be  a  great  deal  harder 
to  die  there  among  strangers  I  I  don't  know  that  I  can  be  willing 
for  that."  She  relapsed  into  deep  thought,  and  presently  she 
said,  suddenly: 

"  Mother,  do  you  say  that  it  is  right  to  go,  and  wrong  to  re- 
fuse?" 

"I  think  so,  my  child." 

"Then,  mother,"  she  said,  with  an  energy  that  startled  Grace, 
"I  will  go  I" 

The  struggle  was  over,  the  brow  relaxed,  and  the  face  softened 
down  into  an  expression  of  sadness,  indescribably  touching,  as 
she  repeated : 

"  I  will  go,  mother ;  not  because  I  want  to  go,  for,  sad  and 
lonely  as  my  life  is,  I  would  rather  be  blind  always  than  to  suffer 
so  much  away  from  you ;  but  I  will  go  because  it  is  right!" 

Grace  was  now  fairly  overcome.  She  clasped  Agnes  to  her 
heart  and  held  her  there ;  and  felt  that  in  this  triumph  of  right 
and  duty  in  that  childish  heart,  she  herself  was,  and  Uncle  John 
too  must  be,  fully  compensated  for  his  kindness ;  even  though 
hope  should  end  in  disappointment,  and  experiment  in  failure. 
The  darkened  eyes  might  never  be  lightened,  nor  the  childish 
heart  gladdened  by  the  blessed  sunshine ;  but  the  child  herself 
could  not  be  wholly  blind,  for  her  soul  was  full  of  light  I 

Presently  she  said,  earnestly  : 

"  God  be  thanked,  my  darling,  for  this  willingness  to  do  the 
thing  that  is  right,  even  at  the  expense  of  pain  and  suffering  I  I 
can  let  you  go  now,  Agnes,  satisfied  that  He  who  requires  such 
a  spirit,  will  take  care  of  you  while  you  are  away,  and  bring  you 
back  to  me,  if  not  with  sight  restored  and  perfect,  at  least  the 


92  CAMERON    HALL. 

same  blind  child  that  I  sent  away,  dearer  to  me  in  her  helpless- 
ness than  all  else  in  the  world  besides,  and  the  light  of  her 
mother's  life,  if  her  own  is  dark." 

Agnes  sat  perfectly  still  for  several  minutes,  leaning  her  head 
upon  her  mother's  lap,  her  whole  attitude  indicating  weariness. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "couldn't  you  possibly  go  with  me  ?" 

"No,  my  daughter,  you  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing;  for  it 
is  quite  impossible.  Uncle  John  will  have  to  take  care  of  you  ; 
and  he  will  do  it  as  kindly  and  tenderly  as  your  mother." 

"No,  mother,"  she  answered,  languidly  and  drearily,  "he  can 
never  be  what  you  are,  although  he  is  the  best  Uncle  John  in 
the  world." 

"Agnes,  when  Uncle  John  talks  to  you  about  going,  you  must 
remember  how  kind  it  is  for  him  to  take  you ;  and  you  must  not 
tell  him  that  you  are  not  willing  to  go  with  him  without  your 
mother." 

"Yes,  mother,  I  will  try." 

No  more  was  said  ;  and  Agnes,  sad  and  tired,  soon  fell  asleep. 
When  all  restraint  was  removed,  Grace  gave  way;  and  when 
Uncle  John  came  in  a  little  while  after,  he  found  the  mother's 
tears  raining  fast  over  the  sleeping  child. 

"How  is  this?"  he  asked,  kindl}'.  "Grace,  what  does  this 
mean  ?"  He  had  to  wait  for  a  reply ;  and  then  she  told  him  all 
the  conversation,  and  the  final  decision.  He  was  touched,  and 
said,  in  reply : 

"Poor  child  I  she  will  miss  her  mother  sadly;  but  God  knows 
I  will  do  whatever  an  old  bachelor  can  do,  to  make  her  comfort- 
able and  happy.  But  I  do  not  think,  from  your  account,  that 
you  dwelt  sufficiently  upon  the  possibility  of  there  being  no  oper- 
ation performed." 

"No;  because  I  thought  that  this  would  be  done  under  any 
circumstances ;   the  result  being  the  only  test  of  its  use." 

"No;  I  think  that  the  surgeon  will  know  if  the  operation 
promises  success ;  and  so,  after  all,  Agnes  may  have  no  greater 
pain  to  bear  than  the  separation  from  you,  and  the  dread  of 
suffering;  that  will  of  course  haunt  her  as  long  as  she  is  in  sus- 
pense. The  voyage,  however,  will  be  exceedingly  beneficial  to 
her;  especially  the  return  voyage,  when  she  will  have  nothing 
to  dread,  and  everything  to  anticipate  with  pleasure.  Another 
benefit,  by  no  means  inconsiderable,  will  be  the  mere  fact  of  her 
being  away  from  the  organ  for  several  months,  for  she  sits  there 
entirely  too  much.  I  am  sure,  Grace,"  he  added,  kindly,  "that 
we  will  neither  of  us  have  cause  to  regret  this  undertaking. 
Should  our  hopes  be  realized,  all  our  trouble  and  anxiety  will  be 

forgotten  in  our  pleasure;   should  we  be  disappointed but 

no!   I  will  not  admit  the  possibility  of  failure." 


CAMERON    flALL.  93 

"I  have  bat  little  hope,  Uncle  John,  that  she  will  ever  be  any- 
thing else  than  the  same  blind  child  that  she  is.  I  do  not  believe 
that  human  skill  can  reach  her  case,  and  I  often  think " 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  for  her  thoughts  outran  her 
words,  and  her  soul  went  out  yearningly  toward  Him  who,  in 
the  days  of  His  humanity,  gave  light  to  the  blind  by  a  healing 
touch  which  was  never  supplicated  in  vain. 

"Then,  Grace,"  he  asked,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment,  "would 
you  rather  that  she  should  not  go  ?" 

"By  no  means.  Uncle  John.  I  would  not  for  the  world  let 
my  selfishness  interpose  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  so  great  a 
blessing;  and  besides,  when  I  know  that  everything  has  been 
tried  without  success,  there  will  be  a  quiet  resignation  in  the 
certainty  that  God  has  decreed  her  to  be  blind.  No,  I  want  her 
to  go  ;  but,  as  it  is  to  be,  I  only  wish  that  the  parting  was  over." 

"  Your  separation  will  not  be  a  very  long  one,  Grace.  I  do 
not  propose  to  be  gone  longer  than  six  or  seven  months." 

"That  is  a  long  time  of  anxiety  and  suspense.  Uncle  John." 

"But  you  will  not  be  in  anxiety  and  suspense  half  that  time. 
If  an  operation  is  to  be  performed,  I  will  have  it  done  as  soon 
as  it  is  practicable ;  so  that  when  the  warm  weather  comes, 
Agnes  will  be  ready  to  go  to  Switzerland.  I  expect  that  pure 
air  to  do  much  toward  giving  to  her  system  that  tone  and 
strength  that  it  so  much  needs.  Indeed,  Grace,  you  must  try 
and  bear  up  cheerfully,  for  Agnes's  sake  as  well  as  for  your  own. 
You  must  not  think  of  her  only  as  enduring  a  painful  exile.  There 
will  be  much  that  even  she  can  enjoy;  and  you  may  rest  assured 
that  whatever  pleasure  she  is  capable  of,  I  will  see  to  it  that  she 
has.  Her  love  of  music  alone  will  afford  her  great  enjoyment, 
and  she  shall  be  gratified  to  the  extent  of  her  wishes." 

"  I  know  it.  Uncle  John,  and  I  have  no  words  to  express  my 
gratitude  for  your  kindness  to  her.  It  is  not  that  I  fail  to  ap- 
preciate it ;  it  is  only  that  every  other  thought  is  swallowed  up  in 
the  single  one  of  separation  from  a  blind  and  helpless  child  at 
such  a  time." 

Uncle  John  appreciated  the  mother's  feelings,  and  made  no 
reply.  They  sat  in  silence  ;  one  pondering  the  months  of  sorrow 
before  her,  and  the  other  the  responsibility  that  he  had  assumed, 
and  the  months  of  anxiety  before  him. 

After  awhile  Agnes  awoke  with  a  start  and  a  smile,  which 
quickly  subsided  into  an  expression  of  pain,  as  dreary  recollection 
returned.  Uncle  John  kept  quiet,  and  he  listened  in  sadness,  as 
the  child,  now  thoroughly  awake,  said,  musingly : 

"  Mother  says  that  it  will  not  be  right  to  let  Uncle  John  see 
that  I  don't  want  to  leave  her,  and  that  I  must  talk  cheerfully 


;r> 


94  CAMERON    HALL. 

about  going  to  Paris.  Yes,  I  will  try  for  his  sake,  for  it  may  be 
as  great  a  trial  for  him  to  go  away  as  it  is  for  me,  and  he  is  doing 
it  all  for  me.  Let  me  go  to  the  organ,  mother ;  I  will  feel  better 
when  I  get  there.  I  could  not  talk  to  Uncle  John  now  cheerfully 
as  I  ought  to  do,  but  I  can  talk  to  it." 

Her  mother  led  her  to  the  organ,  and  Uncle  John  thought 
that  she  was  literally  pouring  out  all  the  sadness  of  her  heart  in 
music,  and  he  had  never  in  his  life  been  so  deeply  touched  as  he 
now  was  by  that  wail,  interpreted  by  her  own  words,  of  which  he 
had  been  the  unsuspected  listener. 

But  for  once  the  organ  failed  to  comfort  her,  and  after  a  little 
while  she  stopped  with  a  sigh,  and  her  hands  fell  listlessly  and 
wearily  into  her  lap.  Uncle  John  could  not  bear  this,  and  he 
sprang  up  and  went  to  her,  not  knowing  what  he  was  going  to 
say,  but  only  determined  in  some  way  to  cumfort  her.  He  felt 
almost  tempted  to  tell  her  that  he  would  not  take  her  away  at  all, 
especially  when  he  was  greeted  by  the  cheerful  words,  so  painfully 
contrasting  with  the  sad  face  and  the  sad  tone  with  which,  in 
spite  of  all  her  efforts,  she  spoke. 

"  Uncle  John,  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come,  for  I  want  you  to 
talk  to  me  about  Paris,  and  tell  me  when  we  are  going,  and  how 
long  we  will  stay,  and  all  about  it." 

"  My  daughter,  I  do  not  intend  to  take  you  to  Paris  at  all, 
unless  you  are  willing  to  go.  If  it  is  possible  to  give  you  sight, 
I  would  be  very  glad  to  do  so  with  your  consent,  but  not  without. 
I  would  like  to  leave  home  early  in  March,  and  be  gone  about 
six  months.  It  may  be,  Agnes,  that  you  will  have  to  suffer  a 
great  deal,  but  even  that  shall  not  be  without  your  consent.  If 
I  find  that  the  success  of  an  operation  is  doubtful,  I  will  leave  it 
entirely  to  yourself  whether  or  not  you  will  undergo  the  pain, 
and  even  if  the  result  should  be  certain,  I  will  not  compel  you 
to  it." 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind.  Uncle  John,  to  be  willing  to  do 
whatever  you  think  best.  I  hope  that  I  would  not  be  so  foolish, 
after  all  your  trouble  and  expense,  as  to  refuse  to  let  the  doctor 
cure  me  because  I  am  afraid  of  the  pain." 

"  Perhaps,  Agnes,  the  doctor  may  say  that  he  cannot  do  any- 
thing for  you,  and  then  I  will  bring  you  home  to  your  mother 
just  as  I  took  you  away,  except  that  w^e  will  have  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  we  have  done  all  that  we  could  to  give  you  sight. 
I  know,  my  little  daughter,  that  it  will  be  hard  for  you  to  leave 
your  mother,  and  I  wish  very  much  that  she  could-  go,  but,  as  this 
cannot  be,  I  will  try  to  fill  her  place,  and  I  think  we  will  have, 
after  all,  a  right  pleasant  time,"  he  added,  cheerfully. 

"  Did  you  say  that  perhaps,  after  all,  the  doctor  might  not  do 


CAMERON    HALL.  95 

anything  to  my  eyes  ?"  she  asked,  grasping  at  the  possible  re- 
prieve from  the  pain  that  she  so  ranch  dreaded.  "I  thought  that 
I  would  have  to  bear  that  any  way." 

"No,  Agnes,  I  think  not.  I  do  not  believe  that  the  doctor 
will  undertake  it  unless  he  feels  reasonably  sure  of  the  result." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that,"  she  said;  for  even  the  bless- 
edness of  sight  had  seemed  to  her  dearly  purchased  by  the  suf- 
fering from  which  childhood  shrinks.  "  I  am  very  fflad  to  hear 
that." 

"And  even  if  I  should  have  to  bring  you  home  the  same  blind 
child  that  I  took  away,  I  hope  that  the  voyage  and  travel  will 
benefit  you,  and  that  you  will  find  many  pleasures  that  you  can 
enjoy  without  eyes.  I  will  try  and  make  mine  do  double  duty, 
and  tell  you  what!  see;  and  I  will  take  you  to  the  great  cathe- 
drals, where  you  can  hear  magnificent  organ-music  and  fine  sing- 
ing ;  and  when  the  weather  becomes  warm  in  Paris,  we  will  go  to 
Switzerland,  a  country  full  of  high  mountains,  whose  tops  are 
always  covered  with  snow,  and  where  the  air  is  pure  and  bracing, 
and  every  breath  is  a  pleasure." 

Agnes's  face  brightened,  especially  when  he  spoke  of  music, 
and  she  replied  : 

"  I  think  I  will  like  it  very  much,  Uncle  John." 

"And  then,  too,  you  will  like  to  sail  upon  the  ocean;  and  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to  do.  I  am  going  to  take  my  old 
flute  that  I  used  to  play,  such  a  long,  long  time  ago,  for  my  little 
child-angel,  and  whenever  it  is  warm  and  pleasant,  we  will  sit  in 
the  same  part  of  the  ship  where  I  used  to  sit  with  her,  and  I  will 
play  for  you  the  same  old  tunes  that  she  loved  so  much." 

Agnes  was  a  grateful  child,  and  she  could  not  but  realize  the 
pains  that  Uncle  John  would  take  to  make  her  happy,  and  she 
said,  earnestly : 

"  Uncle  John,  I  will  try  to  be  just  as  good  and  give  you  as 
little  trouble  as  I  can,  and  when  we  get  to  Paris,  I  will  try  very 
hard  to  bear  my  pain  patiently,  for  I  feel  very  grateful  to  you 
for  being  so  kind  to  me." 

Uncle  John  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head,  as  he  replied:  "My 
child,  I  don't  want  you  to  try  and  be  good,  and  give  me  no 
trouble.  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  under  restraint  with  me,  and 
suffer  in  silence  for  fear  of  giving  me  pain  and  anxiety.  I  want 
you  to  feel  and  act  with  me  as  you  would  do  with  your  mother ; 
telling  me  your  wants,  and  complaining  to  me  as  you  would  to 
her,  when  you  are  suffering." 

"  If  she  behaves  with  you,  Uncle  John,  as  she  does  with  her 
mother,"  said  Grace,  "she  will  not  complain  often,  for  that  is  not 
•  her  habit.     She  is  generally  gentle  and  patient  at  home,  and  she 
will  probably  be  so  with  you." 


96  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  I  shall  certainly  not  object  to  it,  if  that  is  her  character ;  but 
I  only  mean  to  say  that  I  want  her  to  be  with  me  the  same  Agnes 
that  she  is  at  home  every  day,  and  then  I  shall  be  perfectly 
satisfied." 

It  was  now  finally  agreed  npon  that  they  should  sail  early  in 
March.  Agnes's  heart  was  lightened  by  IJncle  John's  cheerful- 
ness, while  her  mother  was  proportionably  depressed,  and  dis- 
covered for  the  first  time  the  latent  hope  that  had  been  lurking 
in  her  heart,  that  something  might  occur  to  prevent  the  accom- 
plishment of  plans  which  she  dared  not  herself  take  the  responsi- 
bility of  overthrowing.  The  cheerful  conversation  had  fallen  like 
a  knell  upon  her  heart,  and  slie  heard  their  arrangements  and  the 
time  appointed  for  their  departure  with  a  pang,  which  she  re- 
proached herself  for  feeling,  but  which  she  could  not  crush. 

Uncle  John  talked  so  pleasantly  about  what  they  would  do,  and 
where  they  would  go,  that  Agnes,  with  the  elastic  temper  of  child- 
hood, began  to  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  the  voyage ;  and 
when,  as  he  was  going  away,  he  said : 

"  So,  my  little  daughter,  you  must  keep  up  a  brave  heart,  for, 
after  all,  we  will  have  a  pleasant  time,"  she  answered,  cheer- 
fully : 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  we  will ;  and  if  I  could  only  take  mother,  and 
my  organ,  and  two  or  three  friends,  I  would  rather  go  than 
not." 

"  Yes,  Agnes,  that  would  be  more  pleasant  when  you  leave 
home,  but  not  half  so  pleasant  when  you  return.  There  would 
be  no  pleasure  in  coming  back,  if  you  had  no  friends  to  meet  and 
to  welcome  you  home." 

Uncle  John  departed,  satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  visit;  and 
Grace  went  off  by  herself  to  weep  away  some  of  the  burden  of 
her  heart ;  and  Agnes  played  on,  and  the  music  was  full  of  serene 
hope  and  contentment. 


CHAPTER  X. 


The  weeks  had  rolled  rapidly  by,  too  rapidly  for  Grace,  who 
dreaded  more  and  more  the  approaching  separation. 

It  was  now  the  night  before  the  departure,  a  wild,  stormy 
night  in  March,  and  Uncle  John  and  the  family  were  seated 
around  the  fire  in  the  library  at  Cameron  Hall.  He  had  come 
out  in  the  afternoon  to  say  good-by,  and  the  girls  had,  in  spite  of 
wind  and  weather,  kept  him  until  after  tea. 


CAMERON     HALL.  97 

The  little  family  party,  usually  so  gay  and  cheerful,  were  uow 
silent  and  sad.  In  ordinary  circurabtanees,  there  would  have 
been  scarcely  enough  to  have  occasioned  this;  but  now  the  girls 
thought  sadly  of  the  probable  suffering  of  Agnes,  and  Uncle 
John  and  Mr.  Cameron,  of  the  possible  change  that  might  come 
over  their  peaceful  and  prosperous  country  before  they  should 
meet  again. 

These  had  formed  the  themes  of  conversation  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  evening,  until  a  cloud  was  upon  every  heart,  when 
suddenly  Uncle  John  said,  cheerfully  : 

"  Come,  girls,  this  will  never  do ;  our  last  evening  must  not 
be  so  doleful.  My  rule  is  always  to  look  at  the  bright  side  : 
until  Agnes  has  been  pronounced  hopelessly  blind,  we  must  ex- 
pect her  to  receive  her  sight;  and  until  there  is  a  positive  de- 
claration of  war,  we  must  hope  for  a  continuation  of  peace. 
Never  let  possible  future  evils  take  away  the  pleasure  from 
present  blessings." 

"  That  is  precisely  my  doctrine.  Uncle  John  !"  exclaimed  the 
buoyant  Eva.  "I  believe  that  there  is  a  bright  side  to  every 
picture,  even  to  war.  I  still  think  that  I  will  like  to  see  the 
handsome  officers  and  gay  uniforms,  and  listen  to  the  fine  bands 
of  music." 

"  There  is  one  young  fellow  in  Europe,  Eva,  who  will  have  to 
come  home  in  case  of  war.  You  will  disown  your  knight  if  he 
does  not,  won't  you  ?" 

"You  will  persist,  Uncle  John,  in  calling  him  my  knight, 
while  I  assure  you  that  I  have  no  part  nor  lot  in  him.  But,  in- 
deed, he  ought  to  come  home ;  he  would  make  a  splendid-look- 
ing officer." 

"  I  must  look  him  up  and  bring  him  back,"  said  Uncle  John. 
"  What  shall  I  tell  him,  Eva  ?" 

"No  message  from  me,  sir,  would  influence  his  movements; 
but  one  from  sister  might." 

"Why,  Eva,"  said  Uncle  John,  laughing,  "I  am  afraid  that 
you  underrate  your  influence ;  you  certainly  are  one  of  '  the  Cam- 
eron sisters'  whom  he  always  mentions  together." 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  a  very  useful  one  too ;  even  he  himself  would 
have  to  acknowledge  that.  A  blind  is  sometimes  invaluable. 
Come,  sister,"  she  added,  "you  can  send  the  only  available  mes- 
sage from  'the  Cameron  sisters  ;'  what  shall  it  be  ?" 

Julia  was  sewing  quietly  when  the  conversation  began,  but  as 
it  went  on,  her  fingers  moved  more  rapidly  and  nervously.  Eva 
still  delighted  to  tease  her,  and  had  never  suspected  that  it  was 
any  more  painful  to  her  than  to  be  teased  about  any  other  ac- 

9 


98  CAMERON    HALL. 

qnaintance.  Had  Jnlia  even  once  expressed  a  wish  that  she 
should  desist,  she  would  have  done  so,  for  she  was  a  kind-hearted 
child,  and  devoted  to  her  sister;  but  Julia  was  unwilling  for  Eva 
or  any  one  else  to  suspect  the  feelings  that  she  was  struggling 
against,  and  which  she  honestly  believed  that  she  was  over- 
coming ;  and  so  she  bore  in  silence,  and  tried  to  submit  with  in- 
difference to  Eva's  raillery.  But  she  could  not  become  accus- 
tomed to  it;  it  was  not  only  disagreeable,  but  it  was  positively 
painful,  and  sometimes  her  patience  and  equanimity  could  not 
bear  the  test,  and  she  would  reply  with  a  sharpness  that  startled 
Eva.  She  did  not  make  any  reply  to  the  question  now  asked, 
but  sewed  on.     But  Eva  repeated  it. 

"You  must  not  pretend,  sister,  that  you  are  so  absorbed  in 
that  work  that  you  do  not  hear.  Hemming  a  pocket  handker- 
chief is  not  such  intricate  work  that  it  requires  undivided  atten- 
tion.    Say,  what  message  are  you  going  to  send  ?" 

"A  message  to  whom,  and  about  what,  Eva  ?" 

"Now,  Uncle  John!"  she  exclaimed,  "did  you  ever  know 
such  affectation  ?  who  would  have  expected  it  from  my  straight- 
forward sister  ?  The  message,  sister,  is  to  Dr.  Beaufort,  whom 
Uncle  John  expects  to  meet  in  Europe  ;  about  what,  I  really  can- 
not tell,  as  you  are  the  best  judge  of  that." 

"  I  suspect,  Eva,  that  if  I  were  to  send  a  message  to  Dr.  Beau- 
fort he  would  be  as  much  surprised  to  receive  it  as  I  should  be  to 
find  ravself  sendingf  it." 

"  Well,  indeed,  I  do  not  see  anything  very  extraordinary  in  it. 
I  know  that  I  should  not  hesitate'  to  send  one,  and  should  never 
dream  that  there  was  any  impropriery  in  it." 

"I  did  not  say  that  there  was,  Eva;  that  is  your  own  infer- 
ence. I  only  said  that  he  and  I  would  be  alike  astonished  if  I 
did.  You  always  talk  as  if  he  and  I  were  old  friends,  and  never 
seeni  to  remember  that  we  are  strangers,  and  that  the  whole  of 
our  intercourse  in  the  past,  and  most  probably  in  the  future  too, 
was  comprised  within  three  or  four  weeks." 

"  Not  such  very  great  strangers  after  all !"  she  answered  ;  "if 
you  were,  you  both  seemed  at  the  time  quite  as  forgetful  of  the 
fact  as  I  have  been  since.  But  even  if  it  were  so,  that  is  no  reason 
why  you  should  not  send  him  a  message." 

Julia  was  annoyed,  but  she  could  not  help  smiling  at  Eva's 
persistency,  and  she  answered  : 

"  Perhaps  not,  if  I  had  one  to  send ;  but  inasmuch  as  I  have 
nothing  in  the  world  to  communicate,  a  message  becomes  simply 
impossible.  If  one  is  absolutely  necessary,  I  leave  you  to  send 
it,  and  shall  await  with  some  curiosity  to  know  what  it  can  be 
about." 


CAMERON    HALL.  99 

"  It  will  certainly  be  about  you,"  she  replied,  while  her  eyes 
sparkled  mischievously. 

"Then,"  said  Julia,  with  energy  and  decision,  "you  certainly 
will  not  send  it." 

"  Yes  I  will,  and  Uncle  John  will  take  it  too, — won't  you,  Uncle 
John  ?" 

"No,"  said  Julia,  "not  if  I  particularly  request,  as  I  do  now, 
that  my  name  shall  never  be  mentioned  to  him." 

"But,  sister,  suppose  that  he  should  ask  Uncle  John  about 
you,  as  he  certainly  will  do  ?  He  will  be  obliged  to  answer  his 
questions." 

"  If  he  speaks  of  us  at  all,  Eva,  he  will  probably  inquire  of  us 
together,  as  he  mentions  us  in  his  letters." 

"  Well,  if  he  does,  sister,  the  same  answers  will  not  do  for 
both.  We  are  two  entirely  distinct  individuals,  as  unlike  in  char- 
acter as  we  are  in  appearance,  and  each  of  us  is,  I  think,  worth 
a  separate  answer." 

"  Dr.  Beaufort  will  probably  not  mention  us  to  Uncle  John  at 
all,  Eva ;  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should." 

"Oh,  sister  1  what  a !     You  don't  often  sin  that  way, 

but  this  time  you  were  certainly  overcome.  Now  you  know 
Tery  well  that  he  will  not  only  ask  in  general  terms,  but  he  will 
inquire  particularly  about  us  ;  about  me,  because  I  am  your  sister, 
and  about  you,  because but  he  knows  best  why." 

"You  are  the  most  provoking  child,  Eva!"  said  Julia,  more 
annoyed  than  she  cared  to  show,  and  yet  afraid  positively  to 
forbid  the  raillery;  and  so  Eva  went  on,  and  Uncle  John  listened, 
amused. 

"  Suppose  that  Dr.  Beaufort  should  ask  Uncle  John  if  Miss 
Cameron  is  married  yet,  and  instead  of  answering  the  question, 
Uncle  John  should  say  that  he  had  been  forbidden  by  Miss  Cam- 
eron to  mention  her  name  to  him ;  how  would  that  do  ?" 

"That  question,  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  answer." 

"  Then  comes  question  second ;  is  she  engaged  to  be  married  ? — 
what  then  ?" 

"  He  will  say  that  he  does  not  kiaow." 

"Oh,  sister!"  exclaimed  Eva,  "tell  a  falsehood  I  surely  you 
don't  mean  that  ?" 

"  By  no  means,  Eva.  Uncle  John  cannot  know  whether  I  am 
to  be  married  or  not,  for  I  never  said  a  word  to  him  upon  the 
subject  in  my  life." 

"  But  don't  Uncle  John  know  that  if  you  were  engaged  I  would 
have  told  him  long  ago,  even  if  you  had  not  ?" 

''  That  is  proof  positive,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  laughing,  in  which 


100  CAMERON    HALL. 

he  was  joined  by  Uncle  John,  and  even  by  Julia  herself,  who 
presently,  however,  answered  gravely: 

"Eva,  Dr.  Beaufort  will  never  ask  Uncle  John  that  ques- 
tion." 

"  Why  not,  sister  ?" 

"  Because  he  is  a  gentleman,  Eva,  and  a  gentleman  will  not 
ask  that  question  of  any  other  than  the  lady  herself.  If  he  is 
interested  in  her,  he  has  no  right  to  seek  to  know  from  others  his 
probable  success ;  if  he  is  indifferent  to  her,  it  is  no  business  of 
his,  and  he  will  have  too  much  delicacy  to  pry  into  what  concerns 
him  not." 

"But,  sister,  a  gentleman  likes  to  save  himself  the  pain  of  re- 
fusal. It  is  not  trying  to  find  out  from  another  her  feelings  to- 
ward himself;  it  is  only  asking  if  the  way  is  clear." 

"  Still,  the  true  manly  way  is  to  find  it  out  from  herself  alone. 
Nor  need  he  necessarily  subject  himself  to  the  pain  of  refusal.  A 
true  woman,  with  a  true  woman's  heart,  will  never  encourage 
feelings  which  she  designs  shall  end  in  disappointment ;  and  a  man 
of  ordinary  penetration  can  generally  discover  if  his  feelings  are 
likely  to  be  responded  to,  and  that,  too,  without  any  compromise 
of  maidenly  reserve." 

"Oh,  sister  !"  exclaimed  Eva,  laughing,  "you  will  never  make 
a  heroine  in  the  world.  I  did  hope  that  some  of  these  days  we 
would  have  a  little  romance  at  Cameron  Hall ;  but  if  we  do,  I 
am  afraid  that  I  shall  have  to  be  the  heroine,  and  then  all  the 
fun  will  be  gone.  I  would  a  great  deal  rather  read  a  novel,  than 
be  myself  one  of  its  characters.  I  see  plainly  that  you  will  never 
do  for  a  heroine  ;  you  are  too  matter-of-fact.  Just  think  what 
would  become  of  a  novel  if  the  hero  scorned  everything  except 
a  plain,  straightforward  course,  and  the  heroine  disdained  all 
concealments, — a  single  page  would  wind  up  the  whole  I  I  am 
astonished  at  you,  sister,  to  have  so  little  poetry  in  your  com- 
position." 

"Nature  unkindly  gave  to  my  younger  sister  both  her  own 
and  my  share  of  that  desirable  element,"  answered  Julia,  smil- 
ing, "and  I  was  left  with  only  the  prosaic.  However,  Eva, 
if  I  do  take  a  practical,  rather  than  a  sentimental  view  of  a  love 
affair,  I  look  at  it  simply  in  its  bearing  upon  my  own  happiness. 
With  my  disposition  (and  for  that  I  am  not  responsible)  my  hap- 
piness requires  frank,  ingenuous  dealing ;  and  no  man  who  did 
not  pursue  this  course  in  a  love  aflfair,  as  well  as  in  anything  else, 
could  gain  my  esteem  or  affection." 

"  Well,  Julia,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  if  nature  gave  you  too  little 
of  the  poetic  element,  she  has,  by  way  of  compensation,  given 


CAMERON    HALL.  101 

you  more  than  the  usual  share  of  truthfulness,  honesty,  and  can- 
dor.    You  admit  that,  Eva,  don't  you  ?" 

*'  Oh  yes.  Uncle  John,  of  these  she  has  a  double  share.  I  find 
no  fault  whatever  in  the  foundation  of  her  character,  for  it  is  the 
solid,  substantial  granite.  It  is  only  in  the  superstructure  that 
I  would  like  a  little  poetic  fancy  work ;  like  the  delicate  tracery 
and  carved  work  of  the  Gothic  architecture,  it  would  give  grace 
and  lightness,  without  impairing  its  strength  and  solidity." 

"  Were  your  sister's  character  other  than  it  is,  Eva,"  said 
Uncle  John,  "  your  description  might  perhaps  tempt  me  to  wish 
to  lighten  it  by  poetic  fancy ;  but  as  it  is,  I  would  not  alter  it. 
I  like  Julia  best  as  she  is." 

"Of  course  you  do,  Uncle  John.  Nobody  ever  dreamed  that 
you  could  think  that  her  character  might  be  improved." 

"  I  did  not  say  so,  Eva.  Julia,  I  dare  say,  has  her  faults  like 
the  rest  of  us;  but  I  have  learned  to  know  and  love  her  as  she 
is ;  and  while  I  would,  in  the  abstract,  like  to  have  her  faultless, 
yet  I  should  surely  miss  her  imperfections  if  she  were  to  lose 
them  ;  and  as  to  the  general  outlines  of  her  character,  I  would 
not  for  the  world  have  them  changed." 

"Oh,  Uncle  John  !"  said  Julia,  deprecatingly,  "don't  talk  so. 
You  talk  as  if  my  faults  were  few  and  small ;  but  indeed  you  do 
not  know  me.  You  are  not  always  with  me  ;  and  then,  too,  you 
are  a  partial  judge  ;  you  are  only  disposed  to  look  at  me,  as  you 
do  at  everything  else,  on  the  bright  side." 

"  Lam  disposed  to  look  at  you  as  you  are,  my  daughter;  and 
I  think,  too,  that  I  know  you  pretty  well ;  and  if  I  needed  any 
help  in  understanding  you,  I  should  get  it  from  the  tell-tale  Eva 
here,  whose  thoughts  and  feelings  flow  through  her  lips  as  natu- 
rally as  water  runs  through  a  sieve.*  No,  Julia,  I  am  satisfied  that 
you  show  yourself  to  me  in  your  true  character." 

"As  she  does  to  everybody  else,"  said  her  father.  ''Julia  is 
the  same  in  the  parlor  that  she  is  everywhere  else.  No,  I  do 
her  injustice.  I  think  that  she  shines  less  in  the  parlor  than  in 
any  other  department  of  the  house." 

"I  thought  so,"  replied  Uncle  John,  quietly. 

"And  in  which  department  do  I  shine  most,  papa  ?"  inquired 
Eva. 

"  In  the  romantic,  my  daughter,  ifthere  be  such  a  department 
in  an  old-fashioned  Virginia  country-house." 

"I  think,"  said  Uncle  John,  "from  the  stress  that  she  lays 
upon  the  act,  that  Eva's  specialty  must  be  washing  cups  and 
saucers.  I  heard  her  only  a  few  days  ago  boasting  of  some 
wonderful  and  successful  efforts  in  that  line." 

9* 

♦ 


102  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Now,  Uncle  John  !"  began  Eva;  but  Jnlia  intermpted  her 
by  saying : 

"That  is  right,  Uncle  John  ;  it  is  her  time  now.  Let  her  see  if 
circumstances  do  not  alter  cases,  in  teasing  as  well  as  in  some 
other  things.  Perhaps  she  will  find  that  it  loses  much  of  its 
relish  and  piquancy,  when  the  verb  is  conjugated  in  the  passive 
instead  of  the  active  voice." 

"  I  must  plead  for  Eva,  Uncle  John,"  said  Mr.  Cameron.  "  In- 
deed, I  am  quite  satisfied  with  both  my  daughters  just  as  they 
are.  As  Cameron  Hall  was  to  be  lightened  by  the  presence  of 
two,  nature  has  wisely  made  them  different,  though  not  dissim- 
ilar. Julia  shall  be  the  solid  substantial  architecture,  and  Eva 
shall  be  the  ornamental  moulding  and  delicate  tracery;  and  by 
blending  the  two  we  shall  have  a  beautiful  specimen  of  the  florid 
Gothic." 

"Thank  you,  papa,"  said  Eva.  "If  it  were  not  for  you,  I 
should  be  entirely  overwhelmed  by  the  combined  forces  of  my 
antagonists." 

"Eva,"  said  Uncle  John,  "I  hope  to  be  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Cameron  Hall  when  your  love  affair  is  progress- 
ing. Of  course  so  sentimental  and  unpractical  a  damsel  as  your- 
self will  make  a  romance  of  it ;  and  I  want  to  read  the  novel  of 
which  you  are  heroine,  as  you  wanted  to  read  the  one  of  which 
your  sister  was  the  heroine.  There  is,  however,  one  insuperable 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  your  plot." 

"  What  is  that,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"  It  is  the  frankness  and  openness  of  your  character.  It  will 
be  so  utterly  opposed  to  your  nature  to  involve  yourself  in  the 
mystery  and  concealment  necessary  for  a  novel,  that  after  an 
effort  or  two  you  will  give  it  up  in  disgust,  and  come  to  papa  and 
Uncle  John  and  sister,  and  tell  them  all  about  it  with  just  as  much 
straightforward  simplicity  and  candor  as  the  practical  sister  of 
whom  you  have  just  been  complaining.  You  are  not  like  Julia 
in  your  temperament ;  but  I  am  sadly  afraid  that  you  will  find 
in  yourself  just  as  little  material  to  make  a  heroioe." 

"  Perhaps  so,  Uncle  John,"  she  replied,  laughing ;  "but  I  never 
intended  to  have  any  concealment  from  my  family  and  from  you. 
I  only  designed  to  be  more  reserved  to  my  lover,  and  not  make 
him  happy  all  at  once,  as  sister  would ;  but  I  would  keep  him  in 
doubt  and  suspense  awhile,  so  that  when  he  attained  the  goal  of 
his  hopes  he  would  the  more  fully  appreciate  it." 

"All  this  does  very  well  in  a  fancy  sketch,  Eva;  but  whenever 
you  are  able  to  conceal  your  feelings,  whenever  you  learn  so  to 
control  your  words,  looks,  and  actions,  that  neither  shall  betray 
the  love  boiling  and  seething  in  your  heart,  then  you  will  no 


CAMERON    HALL.  103 

Jonger  be  Eva  Cameron.  No,  child,  your  lover  will  not  be  held 
any  longer  in  suspense  than  will  your  sister's ;  if  you  do  not  make 
him  instantly  happy  by  words,  your  face  will  betray  you.  Didn't 
you  tell  me  a  long  time  ago  that  you  could  never  imitate  your 
sister's  wonderful  silence  and  self-command  ?" 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  pretended  dismay,  "what 
did  you  tell  for  ?" 

"I  have  told  nothing  at  all,  Eva." 

"  What  wonderful  self-command  ?  what  silence  ?"  inquired 
Julia,  anxiously. 

"Don't  tell  her.  Uncle  John,"  said  Eva.  "Don't  you  remem- 
ber, sister,  immediately  after  our  return  from  the  Springs  last 
year,  I  was  telling  Uncle  John  one  day  all  about  our  visit,  when, 
for  some  reason  best  known  to  yourself,  you  suddenly  disappeared 
in  YirgiPs  convenient  way  of  disposing  of  people — you  'vanished 
into  thin  air  ?'  Well,  it  was  during  this  absence  that  I  told  him 
a  little  secret  about  you  and  the  doctor." 

Julia  colored,  and  Uncle  John  said  : 

"Oh,  Eva,  Eva  I  Can't  you  let  your  sister  alone  for  five 
minutes  ?" 

"I  wonder,"  said  Julia,  recovering  herself,  "that  she  does  not 
get  tired  teasing  me.  So  patient  and  uncomplaining  a  subject, 
I  should  think,  would  weary  her ;  and  one  so  indifferent  would 
disgust  her.  Sometimes,  Uncle  John,  when  she  is  weaving  her 
fancy  sketches  about  Dr.  Beaufort,  or  some  other  of  my  imaginary 
beaux,  my  head  is  full  of  thoughts  of  those  sublunary  things  that 
she  scorns,  and  I  am  wondering  if  Mammy  Nancy  has  fed  the 
chickens,  and  if  Aunt  Fanny  has  finished  churning." 

"  How  flattering  to  the  doctor's  vanity !"  exclaimed  Eva. 
"Uncle  John,  be  sure  to  remember  this  among  your  pleasant 
pictures  of  Cameron  Hall,  and  assure  him  of  the  high  place  that 
he  occupies  in  the  thoughts  of  one  of  'the  Cameron  sisters;'  and 
tell  him  she  says  that  whenever  his  name  is  mentioned,  it  is  at 
once  suggestive  of  the  lofty  themes  of  chickens  and  churning  1" 

"I  think  that  I  must  decline  being  the  bearer  of  such  a  mes- 
sage as  that,  Eva,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "Your  sister  must 
send  a  more  acceptable  one,  or  I  will  not  take  it." 

"It  was  hers,  not  mine.  Uncle  John,"  said  Julia.  "I  never 
designed  it  for  anybody's  ear  except  your  own." 

"Come,  girls,"  he  said,  "it  is  getting  late,  and  I  must  go.  So 
be  quick  now  and  give  me  your  messages  to  our  absent  friend. 
What  shall  I  say  for  you,  Julia  ?" 

"  Nothing  at  all.  Uncle  John ;  I  told  you  that  some  time  ago. 
There  is  nothing  either  that  he  will  care  to  hear,  or  I  to  say." 

"Then,  Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  "tell  him  from  me  that  I 


104  CAMERON    HALL. 

should  be  very  prlad  to  renew  our  pheasant  acquaintance,  and  that 
I  hope  to  see  him  before  long  at  the  Hall ;  and  tell  him,  more- 
over, that  sister  would  say  so  too,  if  she  didn't  have  too  much 
propriety." 

Julia  laughed,  and  said  quietly: 

"It  is  well  for  us  both,  Eva,  that  you  have  so  discreet  a  mes- 
senger; one  who  knows  us  both  too  well  to  misunderstand  us, 
and  loves  us  too  well  to  misrepresent  us.  You  may  send  any 
message  that  you  please ;  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  intrust  it  to 
Uncle  John's  discretion  what  part  to  deliver,  and  what  part  to 
withhold." 

Eva  looked  at  her,  with  her  face  and  eyes  beaming,  and  said  : 

"Uncle  John,  I'll  wager  that  I  know  something  that  would 
induce  sister,  with  all  her  propriety,  to  send  Dr.  Beaufort  a  mes- 
sage." 

"That  is  very  probable,  Eva,"  replied  Julia,  quietly.  "I  know 
a  great  many  things  that  would." 

"But  I  know  one  thing  specially." 

Julia  sewed  on  and  made  no  reply,  and  Uncle  John,  by  way  of 
gratifying  her,  asked : 

"And  what  is  that,  Eva?" 

"  In  case  of  war,  if  Dr.  Beaufort  should  be  indifferent  about 
coming  home,  and  sister  thought  he  ought  to  come,  and  that  a 
message  from  her  would  influence  him  to  do  so,  she  would  not 
hesitate  a  moment.  All  her  propriety  would  be  forgotten  then, 
and  she  would  send  such  a  long  one,  Uncle  John,  that  you  would 
have  to  write  it  down ;  you  could  not  remember  it  all." 

"  Indeed,  Eva,"  said  Julia,  forgetting  everything  in  her  earn- 
estness, "indeed  you  are  greatly  mistaken.  If  there  is  in  Dr. 
Beaufort  so  little  of  true  manhood  that  he  needs  a  woman's  per- 
suasion to  induce  him  to  fight  the  battles  of  his  country,  his  ser- 
vice would  not  be  worth  having.  If  he  has  no  higher  principles 
of  action,  no  clearer  conceptions  of  duty,  no  stronger  will  than 
to  need  a  woman  to  bolster  him  up,  then  there  is  not  soul  enough 
in  him  to  make  a  soldier ;  and  Julia  Cameron  would  be  the  last 
woman  in  the  South  to  try  it  I" 

"Bravo,  Julia!"  cried  Uncle  John,  clapping  his  hands.  "I 
wish  I  could  repeat  that  speech,  just  as  it  was  uttered,  tone,  man- 
ner, words,  and  all,  and  I  promise  you  that  Charles  Beaufort 
should  have  the  benefit  of  it." 

"  I  did  not  make  it  for  his  benefit,  Uncle  John,  nor  with  spe- 
cial reference  to  liim  ;  what  I  have  said  applies  to  every  man  in 
the  South." 

"  Eva,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  I  think  that  there  is  a  lull  in  the 
storm  now.     Go  see,  my  child,  for  you  are  younger  than  I  am." 


CAMERON    HALL.  105 

Eva  obeyed,  and  returned,  saying  : 

"  It  is  not  raining  just  now,  Uncle  John,  but  the  wind  is  blow- 
ing very  hard,  and  the  sky  is  as  black  as  ink.  Indeed,  you  will 
be  obliged  to  stay ;  I  am  sure  that  you  cannot  drive  such  a  night 
as  this." 

"Nevertheless,  I  must  try,  Eva.  My  horse  and  I  know  the 
road  so  well  that  we  can  go  from  here  to  town  almost  without 
sight.  Order  the  buggy  immediately,  and  perhaps  I  can  get  home 
before  it  rains  again." 

It  was  at  the  door  in  a  few  minutes,  and  the  farewell  words 
had  been  spoken.  . 

"  God  bless  you,'  my  friend,  and  my  daughters,"  he  said  as  he 
grasped  three  hands  in  both  his ;  "  God  bless  and  keep  you,  and 
grant  that  we  may  meet  again  before  long  in  health  and  happi- 
ness." 

"And  peace,"  added  Mr.  Cameron. 

"  Yes,  and  peace,"  said  they  all,  solemnly. 

The  girls  were  sincerely  grieved  to  part  with  Uncle  John,  for 
they  knew  well  how  sorely  they  would  miss  his  cheerful  face  and 
pleasant  company.  Julia  helped  him  with  his  overcoat  and 
gloves,  and  busied  herself  waiting  upon  him  to  the  very  last, 
quiet  as  was  her  wont,  while  only  a  few  silent  tears,  quickly 
brushed  away,  bore  witness  to  her  sorrow;  while  the  more  im- 
pulsive Eva  stood  by  sobbing.  Julia  opened  the  hall  door  so 
that  the  light  from  the  lamp  might  guide  him  to  his  buggy;  but 
in  an  instant  a  blast  swept  through,  and,  extinguishing  the  lamp, 
left  them  in  utter  darkness. 

"  Never  mind,  girls,"  he  said,  "  I  can  find  my  way." 

He  groped  his  way  along  to  the  buggy,  and  as  he  drove  off, 
the  wind  bore  back  his  parting  words  :  "God  bless  you  1  God 
bless  you  !" 

A  dreary  ride  had  Uncle  John  in  the  lonely  midnight,  beneath 
an  inky  sky,  with  not  even  the  lightning  flash  occasionally  to 
illumine  the  black  darkness  around.  Though  he  was  naturally 
cheerful,  yet  his  thoughts  were  now  sad,  and  the  object  of  his 
mission  and  its  uncertainty  weighed  heavily  upon  his  heart.  He 
was  obliged  to  drive  very  slowly,  and  with  no  companions  except 
his  own  anxious  thoughts  and  the  howling  wind,  that  rose  and 
fell  in  fitful  blasts,  the  way  seemed  interminable.  At  last,  he 
reached  town  just  as  the  rain  began  to  pour  again  in  torrents 
upon  the  already  flooded  streets.  Not  a  light  was  to  be  seen 
anywhere.  Everything  was  locked  in  profound  slumber,  and  the 
storm  raged  without,  while  the  unconscious  sleepers  within  knew 
nothing  of  its  fury.  As  he  turned  the  corner  of  a  street,  he  saw 
one  feeble  light  glimmering  in  the  distance,  and  it  seemed  like 


106  CAMERON    HALL. 

the  welcome  light  of  the  polar  star  to  the  tempest-tossed 
mariner. 

"Some  lonely  watcher,"  he  thought,  "perhaps  beside  the  bed 
of  the  sick  or  dying." 

But  as  he  drove  on,  even  above  the  roar  of  the  tempest  he 
heard  a  low,  deep  sound,  which  to  a  more  poetic  temperament 
might  have  seemed  a  mighty  sob  of  nature's  great  heart.  But 
Uncle  John  was  no  poet.  He  drew  the  reins  and  stopped  there 
in  the  pelting  storm,  listening  to  catch  the  sound  again,  and 
when  it  came,  not  loud,  but  deep  and  distinct,  he  said  to  him- 
self: 

"  Yes,  I  cannot  be  mistaken.  It  is  Agnes  at  the  organ,  and 
at  this'hour  of  the  night  1" 

As  he  advanced  the  sound  became  more  distinct,  and  the  light 
was  plainly  visible  in  the  cottage.  He  stopped  there  and  entered 
noiselessly.  His  step  was  arrested  at  the  threshold,  and,  with 
his  hand  upon  the  knob  of  the  door,  he  stood  spell-bound,  listen- 
ing, how  long  he  knew  not,  to  the  strain  which  he  could  not  in- 
terrupt. When  it  ceased,  he  went  in,  and,  as  he  opened  the  door, 
Grace  started,  but  Agnes  recognized  his  step  in  an  instant. 

"My  child,"  he  said  kindly,  but  reproachfully,  "what  does 
this  mean  ?  To-morrow  you  will  go  upon  a  long  journey,  which 
will  require  all  your  strength,  and  when  you  ought  to  have  been 
asleep  hours  ago,  I  find  you,  after  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  ex- 
hausting yourself  in  this  way.  Oh !  Grace,  Grace,"  he  added, 
looking  at  her,  "  you  ought  not  to  have  permitted  this." 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  Uncle  John,"  she  replied. 

"  Nor  could  you.  Uncle  John,"  said  Agnes.  "  You  never 
could  have  had  the  heart  to  refuse  to  let  me  say  farewell  to 
mother,  when  I  am  going  to  leave  her  to-morrow  for  so  long  a 
time.  And  that  is  all  that  I  have  been  doing ;  just  saying  all 
night,  through  the  organ,  '  Good-by,  mother,  good-by  1' " 

To  this,  Uncle  John  did  not  reply.  If  he  himself  could  not 
interrupt  this  good-by  strain,  he  could  not  wonder  that  the 
mother  did  not. 

Agnes  asked  no  permission  to  go  on,  but  poured  out  her 
feelings,  with  childish  unrestraint,  upon  the  organ.  She  needed 
no  words  to  interpret  her  music ;  it  was  plainly  a  farewell. 
She  played  on  without  interruption  from  her  listeners,  and  Uncle 
John,  like  Grace,  forgot  the  hour.  At  last,  however,  nature 
asserted  her  rights,  and  the  exhausted  child  could  bear  no  more. 
The  music  ceased ;  and  when  Uncle  John  and  Grace  looked 
up,  her  hands  were  lying  idly  in  her  lap,  and  her  head  drooped 
upon  her  shoulder ;  the  child-musician,  lulled  by  her  own  music, 
was  sleeping  sweetly  and  profoundly. 


V 


CAMERON    HALL.  107 

Uncle  John  arose  and  went  quietly  to  the  organ,  where  he 
stood  for  a  few  moments,  looking  in  silence  at  the  little  sleeper. 
When  he  raised  his  eyes,  there  too  stood  Joe,  who  had  left  his 
post,  as  he  always  did,  whenever  the  music  ceased.  He  was 
gazing  fixedly  at  Agnes,  and  there  were  two  tears  upon  his 
cheeks,  the  first  evidence  of  emotion  that  Uncle  John  had  ever 
seen  in  him.  Agnes's  plaintive  farewell  to  mother  and  friends 
had  mysteriously  touched  some  chord  which  had  never  vibrated 
before,  and  the  idiot  caught  a  fleeting  impression  of  her  mean- 
ing.    The  blind  had  spoken  to  the  blind  ! 


CHAPTER  XL 

It  was  a  clear  bright  day,  and,  from  a  cloudless  sky,  the  sun 
looked  down  upon  the  broad,  blue  expanse  of  the  Atlantic,  with 
its  foam-crested  waves  sparkling  as  if  sprinkled  with  diamonds. 
The  air  was  very  keen  and  cold,  but  there  were  two  of  the  pas- 
sengers who  could  not  consent  to  be  imprisoned  below,  and  who, 
muffled  in  shawls  and  furs  and  a  buffalo  robe,  and  buried  in  a 
sail  to  shield  them  from  the  wind,  were  sitting  in  the  bow  of  the 
steamer. 

A  week  had  passed  since  the  travelers  had  left  home.  The 
parting  was  over;  the  farewell  had  been  spoken;  and  though 
there  could  be  for  Agnes  no  new  sights  and  scenes,  still  there 
were  new  sounds  and  new  voices,  and  Uncle  John  devoted  him- 
self untiringly  to  amuse  and  interest  her.  Everybody  was  kind  to 
her.  None  of  the  passengers  could  pass  her  without  a  kind 
word  or  a  gentle  touch,  and  the  kind-hearted  sailors  looked  com- 
passionately on  her  as  Uncle  John  led  her  in  their  daily  walk  up 
and  down  the  deck.  She  did  not  know  that  she  was  the  special 
object  of  interest  on  the  ship.  Her  gentleness  and  thankful  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  smallest  kindness  won  all  hearts,  and  her 
blindness  awakened  universal  sympathy.  She  missed  her  organ 
sorely,  but  she  did  not  complain,  nor  was  she  entirely  without 
employment  or  amusement.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  re- 
sorted to  singing  and  to  the  piano.  She  sang  the  songs  that  she 
had  learned  from  Eva,  and  would  sing  on  deck  by  the  hour;  one 
after  another  being  drawn  to  her  side,  until  quite  a  group,  of 
which  she  was  the  unconscious  center,  would  be  gathered  around 


108  CAMERON    HALL. 

her ;  and  when  it  was  too  cold  to  be  on  deck,  and  she  was  con- 
fined to  the  saloon,  she  amused  herself  at  the  piano,  dissatisfied, 
it  is  true,  with  her  own  masic,  bat  the  wonder  and  delight  of 
those  who  listened  and  remembered  that  it  was  nothing  but  the 
natural  language  of  a  blind  child. 

There  was  something  inspiring  in  the  fresh  westerly  breeze,  as 
it  swelled  the  sails  and  sped  the  steamer  rapidly  onward,  and 
Uncle  John  seemed  to  drink  in  hope  and  buoyancy  with  the  pure 
air  and  glorious  sunshine.  Agnes,  with  the  elasticity  of  child- 
hood, had  rebounded  from  the  sorrow  of  parting  with  her  mother, 
and  satisfied  with  the  love  and  the  care  of  Uncle  John,  had  re- 
gained her  accustomed  cheerfulness.  Taking  a  long,  deep  breath, 
she  said : 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John !  this  air  is  so  delicious  I  I  can  feel  it 
making  me  strong.     What  wind  is  it  to-day?" 

"The  same  that  we  had  yesterday,  Agnes;  a  westerly  wind, 
and  it  is  sending  us  rapidly  across  the  ocean." 

"A  westerly  wind  I"  she  repeated.  "  Then  it  comes  from  home ; 
no  wonder  that  it  is  so  pleasant !  I  wish  that  it  could  bring  me 
messages  from  mother  and  my  friends." 

"What  messages  would  you  like  to  have,  Agnes?" 

"  I  would  like  for  the  wind  to  tell  me  how  much  mother  misses 
me,  and  wants  to  see  me,  and  that  they  will  not  forget  me  at  the 
Hall,  and  that  Mr.  Derby,  when  he  asks  Grod  to  bless  his  own 
little  children,  will  remember  me,  too." 

"  Those  would  be  pleasant  messages,  my  daughter ;  but  I  don't 
think  that  you  need  wait  for  the  wind  to  bring  them  to  you ;  your 
own  heart  will  tell  you  that  if  your  mother  and  friends  could 
speak  to  you  this  moment,  they  would  tell  you  just  what  you 
would  like  for  the  breeze  to  say." 

"  Yes,  Uncle  John,  I  believe  they  would.  Everybody  is  kind 
to  me ;  everybody  loves  me.  This  is  a  pleasant  world  even  to  a 
blind  child." 

"  I  am  glad,  Agnes,  that  you  have  found  it  so.  I  think,  how- 
ever, that  much  of  your  happiness  is  derived  from  yourself.  You 
are  cheerful  and  contented,  thankful  for  your  blessings  instead  of 
complaining  of  your  affliction." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  thankful ;  but,  then,  I  have  so  much  to  be 
thankful  for.  I  have  the  best  mother  in  the  world,  the  best 
Uncle  John  in  the  world,  and  such  good  kind  friends,  and  my 
dear  organ.  I  should  be  a  very  ungrateful  child  if  I  were  dis- 
contented." 

"  You  certainly  ought  to  be  grateful  for  these  blessings,  Agnes ; 
but  some  children,  instead  of  being  bright  and  cheerful  like  you 
are,  would  be  sad  and  unhappy,  because  they  could  not  see." 


CAMERON    HALL.  109 

"  I  should  be  very  sad  if  I  conld  not  hear;  although,  even  then, 
I  would  try  not  to  complain.  But  oh,  Uncle  John  I  what  would  I 
do  if  I  could  not  hear?  Xever  to  know  what  music  is;  never  to 
hear  the  sound  of  the  organ ;  never  to  hear  mother's  voice  and 
yours. — that  would  indeed  be  hard  to  bear !  I  am  so  thankful 
that  God  made  me  blind  instead  of  deaf!" 

To  this  conversation  there  had  been  an  unnoticed  listener,  a 
dark,  gloomy-looking  man,  in  the  prime  of  life,  who  was  sitting 
not  far  off,  with  his  back  toward  them,  gazing  abstractedly  into 
the  ocean.  Uncle  John  knew  that  he  was  there,  for  he  saw  him 
there  in  the  same  place  every  day;  but  his  presence  had  never  im- 
posed any  restraint  upon  the  conversation,  for  the  stranger's 
'  thoughts  always  seemed  to  be  far  away,  and  he  was  apparently 
unconscious  of  their  presence.  Xow,  however,  he  suddenly  and 
involuntarily  turned  round,  and  looked  in  wonder  upon  the  blind 
child,  who  could  thus  speak  of  her  infirmity.  He  said  not  a 
word  ;  he  did  not  appear  to  see  Uncle  John  at  all,  or  if  he  did, 
he  did  not  think  of  him ;  he  only  sat  and  surveyed  the  child  with 
a  long,  scrutinizing  stare.  Uncle  John  was  annoyed.  He  could 
not  bear  to  have  Agnes's  infirmity  the  object  of  curious  gaze,  nor 
could  he  talk  to  her  without  restraint  when  the  eyes  and  ears  of 
a  stranger  were  so  riveted  upon  them.  He  had  sought  this  part 
of  the  steamer  because  here  they  were  alone  and  uninterrupted 
in  their  conversation,  and  Agnes  and  he  could  talk  together  as 
freely  as  they  were  accustomed  to  do  at  home.  He  waited  a  few 
moments,  but  the  gaze  was  not  removed  ;  then  he  tried  to  make 
the  stranger  aware  of  his  presence  by  returning  his  stare;  but  he 
was  entirely  unconscious  that  anybody  was  there  except  Agnes. 

At  last  Uncle  John's  patience  was  exhausted,  and  he  said : 

"Come,  daughter,  let  us  go  down  into  the  saloon." 

"Oh  no,  Uncle  John,  I  cannot  bear  that  saloon  ;  it  is  so  close. 
Please  let  us  stay  here,  where  we  can  feel  the  fresh  wind  upon  our 
faces.     I  am  not  cold." 

Her  words  recalled  the  stranger's  consciousness,  and  murmur- 
ing something  inaudibly,  he  went  off  hurriedly,  and  mounting 
upon  the  wheel-house,  drew  his  shawl  closely  around  him,  and 
sat  down  there  to  look  out  upon  the  ocean  with  that  same  ab- 
stracted air. 

"He  is  very  polite,"  said  Uncle  John. 

"Who  is  that.  Uncle  John  ?"  she  asked, 

"I  do  not  know,  Agnes;  I  only  know  that  he  is  a  very  un- 
civil man." 

"  Whv,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"Because  he  stared  at  you  just  now  in  a  way  that  would  have 
been  intolerable  to  you  if  you  could  have  seen  him." 

10 


110  CAMERON    HALL. 

"But  perhaps  he  knew  that  I  would  not  care;  that  I  could 
not  see." 

"  That  makes  no  difference,  Agnes.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  me 
to  have  you  gazed  at  in  that  way,  and  he  must  have  known  it. 
He  is  either  very  rude  or  very  absent,  and  looks  as  if  he  might 
be  unhappy." 

"  Is  this  the  first  time  that  you  have  seen  him,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  seen  him  every  day  since  we  left  New  York. 
He  is  gloomy  and  unsocial,  and  spends  all  his  time  here  on  deck 
by  himself.  I  have  never  been  here,  day  or  night,  that  he  was 
not  in  that  same  place,  puflBng  away  vigorously  at  his  cigar,  which 
seems  to  be  his  only  comfort  and  companion.  As  I  len/1  you  by 
him  every  day,  he  raises  his  eyes  and  looks  dreamily  at  us  as  we 
pass,  and  then  fastens  them  again  on  the  ocean,  which  he  never 
grows  tired  of  looking  at.  He  gazed  at  you  just  now  as  he 
does  at  the  water,  intently,  fixedly.  I  cannot  imagine  what  he 
means  by  it." 

"  He  does  not  mean  anything.  Uncle  John.  From  what  you 
say,  he  must  be  lonely  and  unhappy.  Perhaps  he  wants  some- 
body to  talk  to  him.  Why  don't  you  talk  to  him,  and  ask  him  if 
he  is  unhappy,  and  what  makes  him  so  ?" 

"Because,  Agnes,"  he  replied,  laughing,  "in  the  first  place,  it 
is  none  of  my  business;  and  in  the  second,  he  wouW  think  me 
very  impertinent  if  I  did." 

"  But  perhaps  you  could  do  something  for  him !" 

"No,  Agnes,  I  have  employment  enough  in  taking  care  of 
you,  and  I  have  enough  pleasant  acquaintances  on  the  steamer, 
without  seeking  any  more,  especially  one  like  him.  I  do  not  like 
his  appearance  ;  he  has  a  bad  countenance." 

"  If  he  is  bad,  Uncle  John,  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  him ;  but  if  he  is  only  sad,  and  has  nobody  to  talk  to 
him,  I  would  like  to  keep  him  company  sometimes." 

"Why,  daughter,  are  you  growing  tired  of  Uncle  John;  do 
you  want  some  other  company  ?  If  you  do,  there  are  others  here 
who  are  much  more  suitable  companions  for  you." 

"  Oh  no.  Uncle  John  I"  she  answered,  hastily.  "  It  is  not  that 
I  am  tired  of  you,  for  I  would  rather  be  with  you  than  anybody 
else ;  but  I  only  thought  that  if  he  is  lonely,  and  has  no  friends, 
I  would  be  one  to  him.  Even  a  blind  child-friend  may  be  better 
than  none  at  all." 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  would  think  so,  Agnes.  Indeed,  from 
his  appearance  and  manner,  I  don't  believe  that  he  cares  to  have 
any  friends.  So  let  us  leave  him  to  his  own  gloomy  solitude,  and 
talk  about  something  pleasanter." 

And  then  he  talked  to  her  of  the  sunshine  that  sparkled  upon 


CAMEKON    HALL.  Ill 

the  waters,  which  she  knew  and  loved,  because  it  beamed  warm 
and  pleasant  upon  her  face ;  of  the  little  bird,  whose  dimensions 
he  measured  upon  her  own  small  hand,  and  whose  unwearied  wing 
carries  him  so  far  out  to  sea,  who  sometimes  rests  like  a  speck 
upon  the  top  of  the  tall  mast,  or  is  borne  like  a  tiny  plaything 
upon  the  waves,  to  which  he  unhesitatingly  commits  himself. 
Agnes  asked  many  questions  about  the  ocean-bird.  She  had 
never  heard  of  it  before, -and  she  liked  to  talk  about  it :  so  small, 
yet  so  fearless ;  roving  so  far  over  the  trackless  waste,  yet  never 
lost;  resting  so  confidingly  upon  the  waters,  treacherous  to  all 
else  except  the  trusting  bird.  All  this  awakened  her  interest,  and 
promised  to  furnish  a  theme  of  conversation  whose  novelty  would 
not  wear  out  during  the  voyage.  Then  they  talked  of  home  and 
friends  ;  of  the  music  in  Paris  ;  and  then,  greatest  pleasure  of  all, 
their  welcome  home.  They  spoke  not  of  the  probable  pain  and 
suffering  which  might  far  more  than  counterbalance  the  few 
pleasures  that  she  could  enjoy.  Uncle  John  tried  to  shut  out 
the  thought  of  these  from  her  mind,  and  she  preserved,  with  re- 
gard to  them,  a  silence,  which  he  did  not  know  whether  to  at- 
tribute to  childish  forgetfulness  or  to  a  regard  for  his  wishes. 
Then  there  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation.  Talking  of  going 
home  had  taken  them  back  in  imagination,  and  their  hearts  and 
thoughts  were  busy  there,  while  they  both  were  silent.  At  last, 
after  a  long  time,  Agnes  spoke  : 

"Uncle  John,  does  not  this  voyage  remind  you  of  that  other 
one,  a  long.time  ago,  when  you  had  your  child-angel  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  daughter :  I  have  been  upon  the  ocean  a  great  many 
times  since,  and  never  without  thinking  much  of  her ;  but  this  voy- 
age has  reminded  me  of  her  more  than  any  other,  because  now, 
as  then,  I  have  a  little  girl  to  keep  me  company.  This,  how- 
ever, is  much  pleasauter  to  me  than  that,  Agnes." 

''Why,  how  can  that  be,  Uncle  John?  I  did  not  know  that 
anything  in  the  world  could  give  you  so  much  pleasure  now  as  you 
had  then,  when  she  was  your  little  friend  and  companion." 

"It  was  very  pleasant  to  have  her  as  such,  Agnes;  but  I  told 
you  long  ago  that  I  was  a  very  unhappy  man  then.  I  was  morose, 
and  sullen,  and  bitter." 

"But,  Uncle  John,  you  said  that  you  began  to  grow  better 
from  being  with  her,  and  I  should  think  that  it  would  be  so  pleas- 
ant to  feel  yourself  getting  better  every  day." 

"Yes,  Agnes,  so  it  is,  but  not  half  so  pleasant  as  to  look  back 
a  long,  long  time  and  see  the  great  change  that  has  come  over 
you.  It  was  very  little  better  that  I  grew  day  by  day,  so  little 
that  I  scarcely  felt  it  then ;  but  now  I  see  and  feel  that  I  am  a  very 
different  man  from  what  I  was  then.     Now  I  am  neither  sullen 


112  •  CAMERON    HALL. 

nor  bitter.  I  like  to  see  others  happy,  and  I  particularly  like  to 
help  to  make  them  so.  It  is  only  when  I  look  back  and  see  the 
great  difiference  between  my  character  and  temper  now  and  what 
it  was  then,  that  I  realize  how  much  I  owe  to  that  little  child." 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Agnes,  hesitatingly,  "may  I  say  something 
to  you  ?     I  am  almost  afraid,  but " 

"  Say  what  you  please,  Agnes.  Don't  you  know  we  have  agreed 
that  you  are  to  talk  to  me  just  as  you  do  to  your  mother  ?  So 
speak  out,  my  daughter;  don't  be  afraid." 

"Uncle  John,"  she  answered,  timidly,  "I  have  heard  you  say  a 
great  many  times  that  you  were  so  grateful  to  that  little  girl,  but 
never  once  that  you  were  grateful  to  any  person  else.  If  I  ever 
get  my  sight,  I  shall  be  very  thankful  to  the  good  doctor  who 
opens  my  eyes,  very  grateful  to  my  dear  Uncle  John  who  took 
me  to  him,  but  a  great  deal  more  grateful  to  God  than  to  both." 

Uncle  John  was  touched,  and  he  felt  glad  that  she  could  not 
see  the  tear-moistened  eye  with  which  he  listened  to  her  reproof. 
Agnes  continued : 

"  Mother  says  that  when  anybody  does  me  a  favor  I  must  never 
forget  to  thank  them  for  it;  that  I  must  not  only  feel  it  in  my 
heart,  but  I  must  say  so.  Now,  Uncle  John,  when  God  gives  us 
some  great  blessing,  don't  you  think  it  must  seem  very  strange  to 
Him  that  we  do  not  tell  Him  that  we  thank  Him,  and  sometimes 
do  not  even  seem  to  kno^jr  that  He  gave  it?" 

Uncle  John  did  not  reply,  but  he  felt  her  words.  It  was  an 
oft-repeated  truth,  uttered  in  language  as  simple  as  childhood 
could  frame,  but  it  touched  his  heart  as  it  never  had  done  before. 
Agnes  waited  a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  distressed : 

"You  are  angry,  Uncle  John;  I  ought  not  to  have  said  it." 

"No,  my  little  daughter,"  he  answered;  "you  cannot  offend 
me,  least  of  all  by  saying  what  you  have  done  now.  You  are 
right,  my  child,  you  are  right!" 

Presently  Agnes  said : 

"Uncle  John,  you  don't  think  that  I  meant  that  you  must  not 
thank  the  little  girl  at  all,  do  you  ?    I  did  not  mean  that.     I  only 
.meant  that  you  must  thank  the  child-angel  for  making  you  abet- 
ter man,  and  you  must  thank  God  for  giving  you  the  child-angel. 
That  is  the  way." 

"I  understand  you  perfectly,  my  daughter,"  he  replied,  smiling 
at  her  explanation  ;  "  and  I  not  only  understand  you,  but  I  prom- 
ise to  remember  what  you  have  said.  I  thank  you,  my  daughter, 
for  that  good  little  sermon." 

"Oh,  Uncle  John,  don't  call  it  a  sermon.  It  would  be  very 
impertinent  for  me  to  preach  a  sermon  to  you.  I  was  only  tell- 
ing you  what  I  would  like  for  you  to  do." 


CAMERON    HALL.  .  113 

"Never  mind,  my  child;  you  told  me  what  was  right,  and  I 
thank  you  for  it." 

That  night,  when  he  thought  she  was  asleep,  he  softly  opened 
her  statej-room  door  to  see,  as  he  always  did,  that  she  was  com- 
fortable. Agnes  was  upon  her  knees,  and  Uncle  John  heard  the 
last  words  of  her  prayer:  "Make  my  dear  Uncle  John  grateful 
in  his  heart,  and  make  him  tell  Thee  so."  He  gently  closed  the 
door  and  went  on  deck.  He  avoided  the  many  who  were  walk- 
ing up  and  down  for  their  accustomed  exercise,  and  went  to  the 
forward  deck,  where  he  saw  the  moody  stranger  in  his  usual  place. 
Uncle  John  lit  his  cigar,  and  drawing  his  shawl  tightly  around 
him,  walked  hurriedly  backward  and  forward.  His  thoughts 
were  busy ;  first  with  Agnes  and  her  simple  and  earnest  reproof, 
then  with  her  prayer,  and  then  with  the  result  of  that  experiment 
which  he  so  much  dreaded  and  yet  so  much  desired  to  make;  and 
then,  by  an  easy  transition,  they  sped  homeward,  and  dwelt  upon 
the  friends  that  he  had  left  behind.  Uncle  John  felt  lonely,  and 
had  felt  so  ever  since  he  left  home,  and  every  day  that  bore  him 
'farther  from  it  increased  the  feeling.  He  devoted  himself  un- 
ceasingly to  Agnes,  and  when  she  was  awake  he  never  left  her. 
Nothing  could  tempt  him  to  forget  for  a  moment  his  pledge  to 
her  mother,  and  the  promise  that  he  had  made  to  himself  with  re- 
gard to  her.  Before  he  left  home  he  had  believed  that  he  loved 
Agnes  better  than  anybody  in  the  world.  Ever  since  the  even- 
ing that  he  had  found  the  little  blind  musician  in  the  church,  he 
had  had  for  her  a  tender  feeling  that  he  had  for  no  other  child. 
From  that  moment  she  had,  as  it  were,  grown  up  day  by  day 
under  his  eye  and  care,  and  independent  of  the  sympathy  that  he 
felt  for  her,  he  loved  her  for  herself.  He  saw  her  every  day ;  to 
do  something  for  Agnes's  amusement  or  comfort  had  become  a  part 
of  his  daily  duty,  and  she  seemed  to  be  ever  in  his  thoughts.  He 
never  felt  lonely  when  she  was  with  him,  and  had  thought  that 
whatever  might  be  the  privations  and  inconveniences  of  his  pres- 
ent journey,  he,  at  least,  would  never  be  lonely,  for  he  would  al- 
ways have  Agnes.  But  he  had  not  found  it  so.  He  was  more 
constantly  with  her  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life  before,  and 
yet  he  was  conscious  that  there  was  avoid  in  his  heart,  which  she, 
dear  as  she  was  to  him,  could  not  fill.  He  did  not  make  this  dis- 
covery to-night  for  the  first  time.  He  had  pondered  his  strange 
feelings  ever  since  he  left  home,  and  the  conviction  had  gradually 
forced  itself  upon  him  that  there  was  another  dearer  to  him  even 
than  Agnes.  He  loved  her  indeed  for  her  own  sake,  but  he  loved 
her  also  for  the  sake  of  another ;  he  loved  to  make  her  happy, 
but  the  pleasure  was  greatly  increased  by  the  sight  of  the  happi- 
ness that  through  her  he  gave  another.     Uncle  John  walked  up 

10*  ^ 


I 


114  CAMERON    HALL. 


and  down,  trying  honestly  to  search  out  and  understand  his  own 
feelings. 

"And  can  it  indeed  be  true,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that  this 
heart  of  mine,  old  as  it  is  now,  can  feel  again  the  passion,  that 
wrecked  its  happiness  in  its  early  youth  ?  Is  it  troe  that  the 
fierceness  of  that  blighted  love  left  embers  enough  to  rekindle 
the  flame  even  after  so  many  years  ?  Can  it  be  that  the  deep, 
aching  void  in  my  heart  now,  the  quiet,  intense  longing,  can  be 
the  same  passion  which,  in  my  boyhood,  leaped  like  molten  fire 
through  my  veins  or  lashed  my  soul  into  a  tempest  ?  Does  age, 
indeed,  make  such  a  diflference  ?  My  heart  is  not  dead ;  it  feels 
now  as  undeniably  as  it  ever  did,  but  its  feelings  no  longer  waste 
and  desolate  it  as  they  did  before.  The  old  man's  heart  is  toned 
down  and  subdued,  but  does  it  follow  that  it  is  therefore  worth- 
less? May  it  not  be  that  the  damps  of  sorrow  and  disappoint- 
ment, softening  down  the  fervor  of  youthful  impulse  and  fiery 
energy,  may,  like  the  lapse  of  centuries  upon  the  painter's  mas- 
ter-piece, subdue  the  colors  and  soften  the  outlines,  and  so  enhance 
both  its  beauty  and  value?  But  even  if  my  heart  is  not  worth-' 
less;  if  it  is  yet  capable  of  an  affection  which  might  satisfy  the 
demands  of  a  woman's  heart,  is  it  worth  ofi'ering  to  such  a  woman 
as  Grace  ?" 

Uncle  John  puffed  away  at  the  stump  of  his  cigar  until  it  burned 
his  lip;  and  then,  dashing  it  far  out  into  the  sea,  said  to  himself: 

"I  can  but  try.  It  may  be  that  she  will  not  reject  an  old  man's 
love.  Poor  Grace  I  She  has  had  so  much  trouble  in  her  life 
that  I  would  deem  it  a  privilege  and  a  pleasure  to  do  what  an 
old  man  could  to  make  her  happy  during  the  rest  of  it !  I  will 
write  to  her  to-night  a  frank,  honest  confession,  and  if  my  letter 
does  no  other  good,  it  will  at  least  be  a  temporary  relief  to  me." 

He  went  below,  and  on  his  way  he  again  passed  the  stranger, 
who  was  still  sitting  there  looking  out  upon  the  black  and  gloomy 
waters. 

When  he  had  finished  his  letter,  he  looked  again  into  Agnes's 
state-room.  This  time  she  was  fast  asleep.  Uncle  John  gazed 
at  her  a  moment,  and  then  left  her  to  her  peaceful  slumber  and 
dreams  of  home. 

The  next  morning,  when  they  were  again  upon  the  deck.  Uncle 
John  took  his  letter  from  his  pocket,  read  it  over  again,  and  with 
a  sigh  of  mingled  dissatisfaction  and  disappointment,  began  to 
tear  it  slowly  in  pieces. 

"What  is  it  that  you  are  tearing,  Uncle  John  ?"  asked  Agnes. 

"Only  a  worthless  piece  of  paper,  daughter." 

"Are  you  sad  this  morning.  Uncle  John  ?  You  do  not  talk 
much,  and  I  am  afraid  that  something  troubles  you." 


CAMERON    HALL.  115 

"No,  child,"  he  answered;  and  resolving  that  if  he  was,  the 
shadow  should  not  be  cast  upon  her  spirits,  he  said,  cheerfully : 

"What  shall  we  talk  about,  now — home,  or  Paris,  or  Switzer- 
land, or  what  ?" 

"First,  Uncle  John,  about  your  child-angel." 

"What  more  can  I  tell  you,  Agnes,  about  her?  I  thought 
that  you  already  knew  all  about  her." 

"No,  you  have  never  even  told  me  her  name." 

"And  strange  to  say,  my  daughter,  I  do  not  even  know  it  my- 
self." 

"  Why,  how  could  that  be,  when  you  were  with  her  for  so  long 
a  time  ?" 

"  Everybody  called  her  Lily;  ajd  the  name  suited  her  so  well, 
that  I  was  satisfied  with  it,  and  asked  no  other." 

"  You  have  never  yet  played  tie  flute  for  me.  Uncle  John.  I 
would  like  so  much  to  hear  the  music  that  you  used  to  play  for 
her." 

"Well,  my  daughter,  I  have  only  been  waiting  for  you  to  ex- 
press a  wish  to  hear  it.  The  flute  is  ready,  and  so  am  I,  when- 
ever you  are." 

"I  am  ready  now,  Uncle  John." 

"Then,  Agnes,  I  must  go  below  to  my  state-room  to  get  it, 
and  you  must  sit  here  quietly  while  I  am  gone.  You  must  not 
move,  for  the  deck  of  the  ship  is  not  like  your  mother's  house, 
where  you  can  safely  grope  your  way  along.  You  could  not 
walk  alone  here  ten  steps  without  a  severe  fall." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  will  sit  perfectly  still." 

Uncle  John  walked  slowly  down  the  deck,  and  just  before  he 
reached  the  wheelhcuse,  he  went  to  the  side  of  the  ship  and 
looked  out  upon  the  sea.  One  by  one,  he  dropped  the  frag- 
ments of  the  torn  letter,  and  watched  them  sadly  as  they  were 
drawn  in  the  current  under  the  revolving  wheels. 

"It  is  easy  enough,"  he  thought,  "to  destroy  this  expression 
of  my  feelings ;  but  the  feelings  themselves  are  already  too 
strong  to  be  so  easily  controlled.  My  youth  was  blighted  by  a 
betrayed  afifection,  perhaps  my  old  age  may  be  doomed  to  a 
second  disappointment ;  let  me  in  time  guard  against  the  same 
bitter  consequences.  Let  me  be  saddened,  if  need  be,  but  not 
embittered." 

For  the  first  time  since  he  left  home,  Uncle  John  had  momen- 
tarily forgotten  Agnes.  He  was  roused  from  his  reverie  by  a 
step  upon  the  deck,  and  looking  up,  he  saw  the  stranger  ap- 
proaching the  place  that  he  had  just  left  at  her  side.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  go  back  immediately,  and  thus  put  an  end  at 
once  to  the  interview;    for  Uncle  John  had  an  unaccountable 


116  CAMERON    HALL. 

repugnance  to  the  thought  of  Agnes  coming  into  contact  with 
this  man.  He  probably  could  not  himself  have  told  what  it  was 
that  he  dreaded;  but  he  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that  it  was 
defilement  approaching  purity.  He  had  taken  a  step  or  two 
backward,  when  a  sudden  thought  arrested  him.  In  an  instant 
the  past  loomed  up  before  him  with  singular  vividness.  He  re- 
membered himself  once  like  that  stranger,  a  lonely  voyager  upon 
the  ocean,  surrounded  by  his  fellows,  but  sad,  gloomy,  solitary. 
He  remembered  how  he  too  used  to  sit  day  after  day  gazing  upon 
the  restless  sea,  fit  emblem  of  his  own  restless  heart,  and  tliat  his 
first  companion  had  been  a  child,  his  first  pleasure  a  child's  con- 
versation. It  was  not  in  Uncle  John's  kind  heart  to  deny  to  this 
stranger  the  same  comfort. 

"  He  looks  like  a  bad  man,"  he  thought;  "but  he  may  not  be 
so.  Others  might  have  thought  the  same  of  me ;  for  bitter  grief 
sometimes  seams  the  brow  and  clouds  the  face,  almost  like  guilt." 

So  Uncle  John  left  the  stranger  to  an  uninterrupted  conver- 
sation with  Agnes.  He  got  his  flute,  and  returning,  sat  down 
upon  the  afterdeck,  where  he  could  see  Agnes  and  her  companion, 
so  that  he  might  return  to  her  as  soon  as  she  should  again  be  left 
alone. 

As  the  stranger  approached,  Agnes  knew  that  it  was  an  un- 
familiar step,  and  he  saw  her  shrink  from  the  voice,  that  was 
harsh,  although  the  words  were  kind. 

"  My  little  girl,  are  you  blind?" 

"Yes,  sir,  entirely  blind." 

"Where  is  your  home  ?" 

"In  Virginia,  sir." 

"And  where  are  you  going?" 

"Uncle  John  is  going  to  take  me  to  Paris,  to  see  if  a  physi- 
cian there  cannot  give  me  sight." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  old  gentleman  who  is  with  you  ?" 

"Uncle  John." 

"Yes,  that  is  his  Christian  name;  what  is  his  other  name  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  any  other  name,  sir.  Mother,  and  Mr.  Cam- 
eron, and  Mr.  Derby,  and  all  his  friends  call  him  Uncle  John." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  asked : 

"And  who  are  Mr.  Cameron  and  Mr.  Derby?" 

"  My  mother's  best  friends,  sir.  Mr.  Derby  is  the  minister  in 
Hopedale,  and  Mr.  Cameron  lives  in  the  country,  and  his  home, 
mother  says,  is  a  sweet,  beautiful-looking  place.  I  go  there  very 
often,  and  Miss  Julia  and  Eva  are  very  kind  to  me." 

"Julia  and  Eva,"  he  repeated;  "are  these  Mr.  Cameron's 
daughters  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  the  only  daughters  that  he  has." 


CAMERON    HALL.  117 

^  "  Has  he  any  sons  ?" 

"  "  Yes,  sir,  one,  Mr.  Walter;  but  I  do  not  know  him  so  well  as 
the  young  ladies.  He  is  almost  all  the  time  away  from  home  at 
the  university." 

"Has  Mr.  Cameron  only  one  son  ?" 

"That  is  all,  sir." 

"What  kind  of  a  house  does  he  live  in?  But  I  forgot  I  you 
have  never  seen  it." 

"But  I  know  all  about  it,  if  I  have  not  I  know  every  room 
in  it  so  well,  that  I  can  find  my  way  about  almost  as  well  as  if  I 
had  eyes.  It  is  the  same  one  that  his  grandfather  lived  in,  a 
large  brick  house  with  a  gallery  all  around,  both  up  stairs  and 
down  stairs.  The  windows  are  down  to  the  floor  and  open  upon 
the  gallery.  Miss  Julia  and  Eva  say  that  they  are  too  narrow, 
and  that  the  panes  of  glass  are  too  small ;  but  their  father  is  not 
willing  to  alter  them,  because  he  wants  the  old  hpuse  to  look  just 
as  it  did  when  he  was  a  boy.  The  young  ladies  may  be  right, 
and  the  windows  may  be  too  narrow  to  look  well :  I  don't  know 
anything  about  that ;  but  I  do  know  what  a  pleasant,  comfort- 
able home  it  is,  and  how  kind  Mr.  Cameron  and  his  daughters 
are  to  me.  I  ought  to  love  them  very  much,  for  they  have  done 
a  great  deal  to  make  me  happy.  But  why  do  you  ask  so  many 
questions  about  Mr.  Cameron  ;  did  you  ever  see  him  ?" 

"I  am  only  asking  you  about  your  friends.  You  told  me  that 
he  was  one  of  your  mother's  best  friends.  I  want  to  talk  to  you, 
my  child,"  he  added,  kindly,  "  and  so  I  naturally  ask  questions 
about  those  persons  and  places  that  most  interest  you." 

"What  makes  you  want  to  talk  to  me,  sir  ?"  she  inquired.  "  I 
should  think  that  there  must  be  a  great  many  people  on  the  ship 
that  you  would  rather  talk  to  than  a  blind  child.  Uncle  John 
stays  with  me  all  the  time,  but  that  is  because  he  loves  me  and 
is  sorry  for  me;  but  you  are  a  stranger." 

"Yes;  but  that  does  not  prevent  my  being  sorry  for  you  too. 
I  am  a  stranger  to  you,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  interested  in 
you,  and  I  have  often  looked  at  yoii  and  wondered  that  you  were 
so  patient  and  cheerful.  Does  it  not  make  you  very  sad  to  think 
that  you  cannot  see  any  of  the  beautiful  things  in  the  world?" 

"  Sometimes  it  does  for  a  little  while;  but  I  always  try  very 
hard  not  to  feel  so,  because  it  is  wicked  and  ungrateful." 

"Wicked  and  ungrateful!"  he  repeated,  bitterly.  "I  would 
like  to  know  what  a  blind  helpless  child  has  to  be  grateful  for  I'^ 

"Oh  I"  exclaimed  Agnes,  with  a  shudder,  "please  don't  talk 
that  way  to  me.  If  you  do,  I  will  not  talk  to  you  at  all.  I  have 
a  great  deal  to  be  grateful  for :  the  best  mother,  and  the  best 
Uncle  John  in  the  world ;  the  best  friends,  and  a  great  big  organ 
at  home  that  I  can  play  on  all  day  if  I  like." 


118  CAMERON    HALL. 

The  stranger  smiled  as  she  mentioned  her  organ  among  her 
blessings. 

"You  play  on  the  organ,  then,  as  well  as  on  the  piano?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  never  play  on  the  piano  if  I  can  get  to  the  organ. 
It  is  the  very  best  friend  that  a  blind  child  could  have.  Every- 
body has  something  else  to  do  besides  talking  to  me,  and  listen- 
ing to  me  ;  but  my  organ  and  I  have  nothing  to  do,  and  we  never 
get  tired  of  each  other.  Indeed,  sir,  my  or^an  alone  is  a  great 
blessing,  and  always  in  my  prayers  I  thank  God  for  it." 

"  You  are  a  singular  child  !"  he  said.  "  I  would  almost  be 
willing  to  change  places  with  you  for  a  little  while,  to  see  if  in 
your  condition  I  too  could  find  anything  to  be  grateful  for ;  and 
then  perhaps  I  should  not  despair  of  finding  something,  even  in 
this  life  of  mine,  to  awaken  gratitude  I" 

"  Haven't  you  anything  to  be  thankful  for  ?"  she  asked.  "  Have 
you  no  blessings  at  all  ?" 

"None  !"  he  answered,  bitterly. 

"  No  friends  ?  no  home  ?  no  love  for  music  ?" 

"  Certainly  no  home ;  I  believe,  no  friends ;  and  my  love  for 
music  has  never  given  me  pleasure  enough  to  call  forth  any  gra- 
titude on  that  score." 

"  Poor  man  !"  said  Agnes,  in  the  simplicity  of  her  compassion. 
"No  home,  no  friends,  no  music  !  How  much  darker  and  sadder 
your  life  must  be  than  mine,  even  though  I  am  blind  I  How  is 
it  that  you  have  no  friends  ?    Are  they  all  dead  ?" 

"Dead  to  me  !"  he  answered. 

The  child's  sympathy  was  awakened  in  its  profoundest  depths, 
and  she  said,  earnestly  : 

"  Then  I  will  be  your  friend  I  I  cannot  do  anything  for  you, 
but  I  can  feel  sorry  for  you,  and  can  talk  to  you  when  you  are 
lonely  and  want  company." 

The  stranger  was  moved,  and  said  in  reply : 

"  I  thank  you,  sincerely,  my  child,  for  your  sympathy  and  offer 
of  friendship,  for  I  have  long  been  unaccustomed  to  either.  And 
since  you  have  promised  to  be  my  friend,  you  must  tell  me  your 
name." 

"  My  name  is  Agnes  Merton,  but  everybody  calls  me  'Agnes,' 
or  '  little  blind  Agnes  ;'  and  what  must  I  call  you  ?" 

"  You  nmst  call  me  Mr.  George.  Agnes,  there  is  something 
else  that  you  can  do  for  me  besides  talking  to  me." 

"  What  is  it,  sir  ?    I  will  do  anything  that  I  can." 

"  You  can  sing  for  me  sometimes.  I  have  listened  to  you 
already  with  pleasure,  and  have  often  wished  to  ask  you  to  sing 
specially  for  me  ;  but  I  was  a  stranger  and  had  no  right  to 
do  it." 


CAMERON    HALL.  119 

"But  we  are  friends,  now,  Mr.  George,  and  you  may  ask  it 
whenever  you  please,  and  I  will  always  sing  for  you.  Indeed,  I 
cannot  do  anything  else  to  give  you  pleasure,  for,  of  course,  you 
will  not  care  to  talk  to  a  blind  child." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Agnes;  I  shall  like  to  talk  to  you  very 
much.  You  shall  tell  me  all  about  your  home,  your  mother,  your 
friends,  Mr.  Derby,  and  the  Camerons;  and  you  shall  tell  me  too 
about  your  other  friend,  the  organ.  Do  you  play  difiBcult  organ 
music?  you  are  almost  too  young  for  that,  I  should  suppose." 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir,"  she  answered,  simply,  "  whether  the 
music  is  difficult  or  not.  I  only  play  on  the  organ  what  1  feel  in 
my  heart." 

"It  must  be  a  great  effort  of  memory  for  you  to  remember  so 
many  different  pieces,  and  play  them  accurately.  Does  your 
mother  play  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  When  I  was  a  very  little  child,  before  I  could  play 
for  myself,  she  used  to  play  for  me  on  the  piano,  but  she  has  never 
touched  the  organ  in  her  life." 

"  Who,  then,  plays  your  music  over  for  you  until  you  learn 
it?" 

"  Who  plays  my  music  for  me  ?"  she  repeated,  in  a  perplexed 
tone.    "I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Mr.  George." 

"  Why,  of  course,  child,  as  you  cannot  see  the  notes  yourself, 
somebody  has  to  play  the  music  for  you,  until  you  become  so 
familiar  with  it  that  you  can  play  it  yourself." 

"  Oh,  no  sir  !  I  don't  play  anybody's  music  except  my  own.  I 
make  it  as  I  go  along,  and  whatever  my  heart  wants  to  say,  I  say 
it  on  the  organ,  just  as  I  tell  you  now  by  words  what  I  want  to 
say. " 

"  Oh  !  then  you  improvise  altogether,  Agnes,  do  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  what  you  call  it ;  I  only  know  that  is  what 
I  do.  I  would  not  love  it  half  so  well  if  I  played  the  music  that 
some  other  person's  heart  had  made.  No,  sir  ;  when  I  sit  down 
to  the  organ,  I  talk  to  it ;  I  don't  repeat  what  somebody  else  has 
thought  and  felt." 

"  What  a  strange  child  you  are  !  I  shall  find  as  much  pleasure 
in  talking  to  you,  Agnes,  as  I  shall  in  hearing  you  sing,  and, 
whenever  I  can,  I  will  come  and  do  so.  But  I  must  go  now,  for 
I  am  afraid  that  your  Uncle  John  is  becoming  impatient.  He 
has  been  sitting  at  the  other  end  of  the  ship  ever  since  I  have 
been  talking  to  you,  and  is  only  waiting  for  me  to  go  away  so 
that  he  may  come  back  to  you." 

He  shook  her  by  the  hand  and  withdrew  to  his  accustomed 
seat,  and  was  soon,  as  usual,  looking  out  at  the  ocean,  seemingly 
unconscious  of  everything  around  him. 


120  CAMERON     HALL. 

He  had  been  mistaken,  however,  in  thinking  that  at  that 
moment  Uncle  John  was  awaiting  his  movements  with  impa- 
tience. He  had  determined  not  to  interrupt  his  conversation 
with  Agnes;  but  after  waiting  some  time,  he  had  concluded  that 
the  interview  promised  to  be  a  long  one,  and  was  now  busily 
engaged  with  a  gentleman  in  the  discussion  of  political  affairs. 
He  was  interested  and  excited,  and  the  stranger  had  left  Agnes 
and  walked  away  unnoticed. 

The  child  was  not  accustomed  to  be  left  alone.  She  was  in  a 
strange  place  and  afraid  to  move,  and  she  felt  desolate  and 
lonely.  Her  only  resource  now  was  to  sing,  and  her  song,  like 
her  organ  music,  naturally  expressed  the  feelings  of  her  heart. 

Uncle  John  was  talking  busily,  when  all  at  once,  clear  and 
distinct,  the  wind  wafted  her  voice  to  him,  and  the  touching 
words  of  the  Blind  Boy,  "  I'm  blind  I  oh,  I'm  blind  !"  smote 
him  to  the  heart.  Turning  round  hastily,  he  saw  that  she  was 
alone.  He  did  not  stay  to  finish  his  sentence,  or  to  apologize  to 
his  companion  for  his  abruptness,  but  sprang  up  and  hastened  to 
her.  She  greeted  him  with  a  smile  as  he  seated  himself  by  her, 
and  she  took  possession  of  his  hand  as  if  to  keep  him  there,  but 
went  on  with  her  song.  It  soon  reached  other  ears  and  other 
hearts  besides  Uncle  John's.  One  after  another  of  the  passengers 
grouped  themselves  around  her;  and  men,  women,  and  children 
listened,  until  the  words  of  the  song  verified  themselves  in  their 
feelings,  and  "pleasure  was  turned  into  pain."  The  ever-recur- 
ring plaint,  "  I'm  blind  1  oh,  I'm  blind  !"  appealed  with  touching 
pathos  from  the  little  blind  songster  to  the  hearts  of  her  listen- 
ers, and  there  was  scarcely  a  dry  eye  in  the  group  around  her. 
One  there  was,  not  with  the  rest,  but  apart  by  himself,  who  heard 
with  folded  arms  and  bowed  head,  and  who  wondered  at  him- 
self that  a  child's  song  could  bring  tears  to  his  eyes. 

When  it  was  ended,  the  group  silently  dispersed,  and  Uncle 
John  and  Agnes  were  again  alone,  and  he  said  : 

"  I  must  ask  forgiveness,  my  daughter,  for  having  left  you 
alone.     Every  word  of  your  song  reproached  me." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that.  Uncle  John,  for  indeed  I  did  not  mean 
it.  I  felt  lonely  and  sad  just  then,  and  scarcely  knew  what  I 
was  doing  when  I  began  to  sing.  I  should  be  very  sorry  for 
you  to  think  that  I  meant  to  reproach  you,  for  I  am  not  so 
selfish  as  to  expect  or  to  want  you  to  stay  all  the  time  with  me." 

"But,  Agnes,  I  prefer  to  stay  with  you.  I  should  not  be  con- 
tented or  comfortable  to  leave  you  alone  in  a  strange  place,  and 
I  did  not  intend  to  do  it  then..  I  thought  that  the  stranger  was 
with  you.  How  long  had  he  been  gone,  when  you  began  to 
sing?" 


CAMERON     HALL.  121 

"Only  a  few  minutes.  He  thought  that  you  were  impatient 
to  come  back,  and  was  only  waiting  for  him  to  go  away." 

''That  was  true;  but  while  I  was  waiting  I  became  engaged  in 
conversation  with  a  gentleman,  and  did  not  see  when  he  left  you. 
You  must  forgive  my  negligence  this  time  ;  I  promise  that  it 
shall  not  occur  again.  I  have  brought  my  flute  ;  let  us  see  if  I 
have  forgotten  how  to  play." 

Uncle  John's  tone  had  not  the  flexibility  of  former  years,  but 
it  had  not  lost  its  sweetness  ;  and  as  the  clear  strain  was  borne  by 
the  breeze  far  out  upon  the  waters,  where  it  gradually  sank  to 
rest,  others  besides  Agnes  listened  with  pleasure.  The  music, 
though  sweet  to  all,  was  familiar  only  to  himself,  but  it  bore  him 
far  back  into  by-gone  years,  and  with  singular  power  linking 
the  distant  past  with  the  present,  blended  both  into  one.  Leap- 
ing over  years  and  distance,  his  early  love,  his  child-friend,  Grace 
in  her  distant  home,  and  the  blind  child  at  his  side,  all  grouped 
themselves  together  in  the  same  present  picture.  If  Agnes  could 
have  seen  his  abstracted  air,  and  the  intense  earnest  gaze  with 
which  he  seemed  to  look  at  something  afar  off,  she  might  have 
thought  herself  forgotten  again,  and  the  lonely  feeling  might 
have  returned;  but  she  could  see  nothing  of  this;  she  only  knew 
that  Uncle  John  was  sitting  by  her  side,  and  that  he  was  playing 
the  flute  for  her  pleasure,  and  she  was  contented  and  happy. 
After  awhile  he  laid  it  down,  and  said  : 

"  That  will  do  for  the  present,  Agnes.  Tell  me  now  what  the 
stranger  was  talking  about  all  that  time." 

Agnes  told  him  the  substance  of  their  conversation,  and  her 
promise  to  be  his  friend. 

"  Did  I  do  right.  Uncle  John  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  my  daughter,  I  suppose  so." 

"  You  are  not  certain,  then,  Uncle  John.  Now  if  you  think 
that  it  is  wrong  for  me  to  talk  to  this  strange  gentleman,  I  will 
not  do  it  again." 

"I  cannot  say  so,  Agnes.  If  it  gives  you  pleasure,  I  shall  not 
forbid  it,  for  I  am  sure  that  I  like  for  you  to  have  as  many  friends 
as  possible." 

"  I  do  not  think,  Uncle  John,  that  it  will  give  me  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure  to  talk  to  him,  for  his  voice  is  har§h,  and  he  has  some- 
times a  cross,  bitter  way  of  speaking ;  but  I  heard  you  say  that 
he  has  no  companions,  he  says  himself  that  he  has  no  friends,  and 
if  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  him  to  talk  to  me,  I  think  that  I  ought 
to  be  willing  to  do  it.  Uncle  John,  let  me  be  his  child-friend,  as 
Lily  was  yours." 

"You  are  right,  my  daughter:  be  the  stranger's  child- 
friend.  " 

11 


122  CAMERON    HALL. 

And  so  ever  afterward  Agnes  welcomed  the  stranger  kindly, 
and  tried  to  be  his  companion  and  friend.  He  seemed  quite 
satisfied  with  her  society,  for  he  sought  no  other,  and  Uncle 
John  remarked  that  when  he  was  talking  to  her,  his  face  wore  a 
different  expression  from  its  usual  dark  frown.  He  spent  an  hour 
or  two  every  day  with  her.  Uncle  John  surrendering  to  him  his 
seat  by  her  side,  for  the  stranger  did  not  care  to  talk  to  hijr  in 
the  presence  of  another.  He  questioned  her  closely  about  her 
home,  her  mother,  her  friends,  and  she  answered  him  wiih  the 
frankness  of  childhood.  She  told  him  all  she  knew,  and  felt  glad 
that  he  was  interested  in  them.  She  loved  to  talk  of  Hopedale 
and  Cameron  Hall,  and  the  stranger  encouraged  her,  perhajjs 
because  he  saw  the  pleasure  that  it  gave  her.  Thus  they  grew 
to  be  friends.  Day  after  day,  as  she  became  more  accustomed  to 
him,  his  voice  seemed  to  lose  somewhat  of  its  harshness,  and  his 
words  somewhat  of  their  bitterness.  He  always  spoke  gently 
and  kindly  to  her,  and  never  left  her  without  thanking  her  for 
her  friendship ;  and  so  the  child  experienced  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  the  pleasure  of  giving  pleasure  to  another. 

When  the  steamer  anchored  at  Cowes,  the  stranger  left  them, 
after  a  few  words  of  affectionate  farewell  to  his  little  blind  friend, 
and  an  earnest  wish  that  her  journey  might  not  be  in  vain,  and 
her  life  always  dark.  When  he  was  gone,  she  said,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes: 

"  Uncle  John,  I  am  so  sorry  that  he  is  gone.  I  have  nothing 
to  do  now." 

"  Nothing  to  do,  my  daughter  !  Have  you  not  Uncle  John  to 
entertain  and  make  happy  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  she  answered,  sadly.  "  You  can  make  me  happy, 
but  I  cannot  make  you  so,  I  need  you,  but  you  do  not  need  me. 
This  stranger  is  the  first  person  in  the  world  that  I  ever  could  do 
anything  for!" 

"  Don't  you  think,  Agnes,  that  you  can  do  anything  for  your 
mother  or  me?" 

"No,  sir;  I  wish  I  could.  You  and  mother  are  always  doing 
something  for  me,  but  I  never  can  do  anything  for  you.  That  is 
the  hardest  part  of  being  blind." 

"  Your  life  is  very  far  from  useless,  if  you  are  blind.  What 
would  the  cottage  be  without  you  ?  How  much  more  lonely 
would  my  bachelor  home  be,  if  there  were  no  little  blind  child  to 
come  in  and  gladden  it  ?  and  how  sorely  would  you  be  missed  at 
the  rectory  and  at  Cameron  Hall !  It  is  not  right,  it  is  not 
grateful,  for  you  to  think  that  you  are  of  no  use  to  anybody.  If 
you  were  peevish  and  discontented,  then,  indeed,  you  would  cause 
your  friends  much  sorrow;  but  as  it  is,  the  only  regret  that  your 


CAMERON    HALL.  123 

blindness  causes  them  is  on  your  own  account.  As  for  the  rest 
of  us,  your  life,  blind  as  it  is,  makes  ours  brighter  and  pleasanter, 
and  you  ought  to  thank  God  that  it  is  so." 

"  I  do,  I  do,  Uncle  John,"  she  replied,  earnestly,  "if  it  is  really 
so ;  I  only  wish  that  I  could  see  how  it  can  be." 

"And  so,"  thought  he,  "might  the  silent  sunbeam  wish  to 
know  how  it  is  that  it  dispels  shadows,  and  lights  up  everything 
with  its  smile ;  but  inasmuch  as  its  very  presence  brightens  and 
gladdens,  it  can  never  know  the  darkness  and  dreariness  that  it 
leaves  behind  when  it  is  withdrawn." 

Then  he  said,  aloud  : 

"You  are  our  sunbeam,  Agnes,  and  you  can  never  imagine 
how  dark  our  hearts  and  lives  would  be  without  you.  So,  brighten 
up,  and  never  let  me  hear  any  more  about  your  being  useless. 
Come,  here  is  the  old  flute,  I  am  going  to  play  for  you  once 
more,  and  then  put  it  away  until  we  are  again  on  the  ocean  going 
home.  When  you  wake  up  in  the  morning,  the  steamer  will  be 
anchored  at  Havre,  and  then  we  will  take  the  cars,  and  a  few 
hours  will  bring  us  to  Paris." 

Agnes  shuddered,  but  did  not  reply,  and  Uncle  John  knew 
what  she  was  thinking  of.  He  took  up  the  flute  and  tried,  by  the 
music  that  she  loved,  to  make  her  forget  the  suffering  that  she 
dreaded  ;  and  when  he  was  done  playing,  he  talked  to  her  of 
Hopedale  and  the  past,  instead  of  Paris  and  the  future. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Agnes  enjoyed  Paris;  it  was  strange  that  a  blind  child  should, 
but  she  had  a  patient  and  unselfish  guardian,  whose  only  pleasure 
was  to  see  her  happy,  and  who  spared  no  pains  to  make  her  so. 
He  tried  faithfully  to  fulfill  his  promise,  and  make  his  eyes  do 
double  duty;  but  he  soon  found  how  impossible  it  was  to  give 
her  any  idea  of  that  gay  and  ever-shifting  scene.  And  in  a  place 
where  so  much  is  to  be  seen,  and  where  the  eye  alone  is  the 
medium  of  so  much  pleasure,  he  seemed  to  realize,  as  he  never 
did  before,  the  extent  of  her  afiaiction.  They  had  pleasant  rooms 
in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  opposite  the  palace  gardens,  and  when 
Uncle  John  looked  from  his  window  upon  the  bright  scene,  he 
remembered  sadly  that  for  those  blind  eyes  there  was  no  pleasant 
picture,  but  that  the  veil  of  darkness  was  as  thick  and  impenetra- 
ble in  the  gay  capital,  where  she  so  much  needed  eyes,  as  it  ever 


124  CAMERON    HALL. 

had  been  in  the  quiet  village  home,  where  there  was  nothing  to 
interest  or  amuse. 

The  crowded  thoroughfares  of  the  Rivoli  and  the  Boulevards 
afforded  no  safety  and  offered  no  attraction  to  the  blind  child ;  but 
every  day,  when  the  sun  grew  warm,  Uncle  John  led  her  into  the 
palace  gardens,  and  seating  themselves  beneath  the  trees,  he  tried 
to  entertain  her  with  descriptions  of  what  was  around  them.  It 
was  too  early  for  the  flowers  to  bloom,  or  the  fountains  to  play,  or 
for  the  bands  of  music,  but  there  would  have  been  enough  to 
entertain  her  if  she  had  not  been  blind ;  and  as  Uncle  John's  eye 
wandered  round,  and  he  felt  how  vain  would  be  the  effort  to 
paint  the  scene  upon  her  mind  by  words,  he  realized  what  blind- 
ness was,  and  longed  for  those  eyes  to  be  opened  there.  He  felt 
doubly  anxious  that  their  first  sight  of  the  beauties  of  the  world 
might  be  in  a  place  where  the  Eye  seems  to  be  the  deity  univers- 
ally worshiped ;  where  science  and  art  and  nature  and  taste  are 
combined,  to  group  together  in  endless  variety  everything  that 
the  imagination  can  conceive,  or  the  ingenuity  of  man  devise,  to 
gratify  the  eye.  And  then,  as  he  sat  there  with  Agnes  at  his 
side,  Uncle  John  would  full  into  a  day-dream.  The  operation 
had  been  successfully  performed  ;  the  pain  and  suffering  were  all 
over ;  the  childish  heart  was  brimful  of  ecstacy  at  the  sight  of 
wonders  and  beauties  of  which  she  had  never  conceived ;  and 
then,  she  was  at  home,  and  he  was  looking  with  pleasure  unut- 
terable upon  the  mother's  face,  beaming  with  gratitude  too  pro- 
found for  words ! 

Ah,  Uncle  John!  you  have  thought  that  years  and  gray  hairs 
had  made  you  old,  too  old  for  day-dreams  and  castles  in  the  air, 
and  for  feelings  that  you  had  laid  aside  years  ago,  as  belonging 
entirely  to  that  youth  now  long  past ;  but  you  find  yourself  mis- 
taken, as,  with  a  start,  you  are  awakened  from  your  dream  by  the 
childish  voice,  which  says :  "  Tell  me  something  else  that  you  see, 
Uncle  John  I"  and  with  a  sigh  you  look  upon  the  eyes  still  blind, 
and  with  a  pang  you  think  of  uncertainty  and  suffering  yet  to 
come. 

The  positions  of  Uncle  John  and  Agnes  seemed  now  reversed. 
Hers  was  all  the  pleasure ;  his  the  anxiety  and  pain.  Her  face 
was  always  bright,  while  his  had  lost  its  serene  expressit)n,  and 
was  anxious  and  careworn.  The  suspense  to  which  he  con- 
demned himself  was  painful,  but  he  had  determined  that  she 
should  enjoy  all  that  she  was  capable  of,  before  her  doom  was 
sealed  either  to  a  life  of  darkness  or  to  the  protracted  suffering 
which  she  must  endure.  So  he  had  not  yet  seen  the  surgeon, 
although  they  had  been  more  than  a  week  in  Paris,  and  she 
seemed  almost  to  have  forgotten  for  what  purpose  she  had  come. 


CAMERON    HALL.  125 

Every  day  they  drove  ont  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  wherever 
else  they  went  in  that  spacious  park,  they  never  returned  without 
going  to  the  cascade,  whose  glittering  waters  and  sparkling  foam 
and  mossy  rocks  she  could  not  see,  but  whose  spray  she  loved  to 
feel  upon  her  face,  and  to  whose  music  she  was  never  tired  of 
listening.  Every  day  gay  parties  of  pleasure  stopped  at  the  same 
place,  and  bright  eyes  took  in  all  its  beauty,  but  the  water-fall 
spoke  to  no  heart  as  it  did  to  that  of  the  blind  child,  and  she, 
who  had  but  the  one  inferior  sense  with  which  to  appreciate  it, 
lingered  there  day  after  day,  listening  to  its  splashing  waters, 
long  after  the  others  had  looked  at  and  forgotten  it. 

But  the  music  of  Paris  was  Agnes's  chief  delight.  Even  al- 
ready she  had  been  two  or  three  times  to  the  French  or  Italian 
opera,  and  not  one  of  all  the  vast  assemblage  enjoyed  it  as  she 
did.  The  stage  decorations,  the  scenic  effect,  the  blaze  of  light, 
the  magnificent  dresses  of  the  audience,  the  royal  box  with  its 
royal  occupants, — all  these  were  great  attractions  to  others ;  but 
she  sat  there  in  her  blindness,  with  none  of  all  this  to  distract  her 
attention.  With  her  soul  wide  awake,  and  drinking  in  with  thirsty 
eagerness  the  music  that  she  loved  better  than  anything  else  on 
earth,  she  sat  with  folded  hands  and  radiant  face,  the  very  em- 
bodiment of  happiness ;  and  Uncle  John  saw  nothing  there  so 
beautiful  as  her  countenance,  and,  lover  of  music  as  he  was,  he 
heard  nothing  that  gave  him  such  pleasure  as  the  half-suppressed 
but  earnest  exclamation  of  delight  with  which  her  heart  now  and 
then  lightened  its  burden  of  enjoyment.  On  Sundays  she  went  to 
the  churches  of  St.  Roch,  St.  Eustache,  and  others,  where  they 
have  the  finest  music ;  and  so  in  all  that  brilliant  capital  there 
was  not  a  lighter  or  happier  heart  than  that  of  the  child,  who 
never  failed  to  elicit  an  expression  of  sympathy  or  pity  wherever 
she  went,  but  was,  in  her  enjoyment,  altogether  unconscious  of 
needing  either. 

Uncle  John  wrote  home  regularly  by  every  steamer.  The  sub- 
ject of  the  letter,  whose  fragments  he  had  buried  in  the  ocean, 
had  never  been  renewed.  He  himself  could  perhaps  scarcely  have 
told  why  he  was  so  dissatisfied  with  it,  and  why  he  had  destroyed 
it ;  he  only  knew  that  it  did  not  express  all  that  he  felt,  and  he 
had  determined  to  wait  until  his  return  home  to  speak  what  he 
found  it  impossible  to  write.  The  consequence  was  that,  when- 
ever he  began  a  letter  to  her,  a  feeling  of  constraint  came  over 
him,  and  was  very  evident  even  to  himself  in  the  letter,  but  while 
he  greatly  deplored  it  he  could  not  prevent  it.  To  Julia  and  Eva, 
he  wrote  with  that  freedom  and  unreserve  which  had  ever  marked 
their  intercourse ;  but  to  Grace  he  could  not,  and  his  letters  to  her 
were  generally  brief,  and  occupied  entirely  with  Agnes. 

11* 


126  CAMERON    HALL. 

He  had  made  a  few  vain  attempts  to  find  the  whereabouts  of 
Charles  Beaufort,  and  in  this  alone  he  felt  that  his  close  confine- 
ment with  Agnes  was  a  restraint  upon  his  movements.  He  had 
sent  notes  to  him  to  several  ditlerent  addresses,  and  had  received 
no  response,  and  but  for  her  he  would  now  have  searched  for  hira 
at  the  different  medical  schools  and  hospitals;  but  he  could 
neither  take  her  upon  such  a  search,  nor  leave  her  at  home  while 
he  went,  so  that  he  had  almost  relinquished  the  hope  of  seeing 
hira  at  all.  Uncle  John  not  only  wanted  a  companion,  a  friend, 
but  he  felt  that  in  Charles  he  might  also  find  a  valuable  assistant 
in  his  impending  trouble.  He  began  almost  to  shrink  from  the 
undertaking,  and  the  nearer  the  time  approached,  the  more  heavily 
the  responsibility  weighed  upon  him,  and  the  more  he  felt  his  in- 
competency to  meet  it.  The  suspense,  too,  was  now  becoming 
intolerable,  and,  determined  to  have  her  fate  decided  at  once,  he 
said  to  her  one  day,  in  a  cheerful  tone : 

"  Daughter,  it  is  almost  time  to  look  up  our  surgeon ;  don't 
you  think  so?" 

The  smile  was  gone  in  an  instant,  and  the  plea  for  delay  was 
already  upon  her  lips,  but  she  checked  herself,  and  replied  with  a 
shudder: 

"Yes,  sir;  I  am  ready." 

For  an  instant  he  would  gladly  have  recalled  the  proposal,  for 
there  was  something  very  painful  to  him  in  the  contrast  between 
her  unconcealed  dread  and  her  woFds  of  patient  submission;  but 
be  knew  that  it  must  be  the  same  thing,  however  long  postponed, 
and  he  thought  the  sooner  it  was  over  the  better  it  would  be  for 
both. 

"Suppose,"  he  said,  "that  I  write  a  note  to  him  to-day,  and 
ask  him  to  appoint  a  time  for  you  to  go  to  his  office ;  are  you 
willing?     If  not,  I  will  wait  until  you  are." 

"Yes,  Uncle  John,  I  am  willing;   I  am  ready." 

The  unresisting  tone  in  which  she  said  "  I  am  ready,"  smote 
him  to  the  heart,  and  wishing,  if  possible,  to  divert  her  thoughts, 
he  said : 

"  Come,  let  us  go  into  the  garden  where  the  children  are  play- 
ing; you  will  feel  better  then." 

She  did  not  answer  to  this  proposition  as  she  always  did,  with 
a  ready  assent  and  a  cheerful  smile.  She  said  not  a  word ;  but  as 
Uncle  John  was  tying  on  her  hat,  the  tears  began  to  roll  down,  one 
by  one,  and  she  brushed  them  away  as  they  fell ;  but  soon  they 
flowed  faster,  and  finally,  with  a  deep  sob,  she  sank  upon  the 
floor  by  his  side,  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  cried  as  if 
her  heart  would  break.  Uncle  John  knew  not  what  to  do  ;  the 
child  needed  her  mother  now,  and  none  could  supply  her  place. 


CAMERON    HALL.  127 

He  lifted  her  into  his  lap,  and  leaned  her  head  against  his  shoul- 
der, but  he  could  not  comfort  her,  and  so  he  said  nothing,  but 
only  looked  at  her  in  silent  compassion.  After  a  while  she 
stopped  crying,  and  wiping  her  eyes,  said,  with  an  effort  to  smile : 

"I  feel  better  now^,  IJnele  John ;  let  us  go." 

He  led  her  through  the  less  frequented  parts  of  the  garden 
until  she  was  tired  walking,  and  then  they  went  to  the  place  where 
the  children  were  playing. 

Their  voices  were  as  merry  as  usual,  and  Uncle  John  tried 
harder  than  ever  to  interest  Agues  by  describing  what  was  going 
on  around  her,  but  it  was  a  miserable  failure.  His  heart  was  not 
in  his  descriptions,  and  he  saw  that  she  listened  with  an  effort. 
Instead  of  the  happy  childish  faces  and  frolicsome  glee  around 
him,  he  only  saw  the  tear-stained  cheeks  at  his  side,  and  only 
thought  of  his  inability  to  cheer  and  comfort  his  little  blind  com- 
panion. They  did  not  stay  very  long,  and  she  was  the  first  to 
propose  to  go  home.  She  went  to  bed  much  earlier  that  night 
than  usual,  and  Uncle  John  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he  saw  her 
locked  in  the  blessed  forgetfulness  of  sleep. 

He  then  wrote  to  the  surgeon,  begging  a  prompt  reply  and  an 
early  appointment,  and  as  a  last  resort  he  wrote  another  note  to 
Charles  Beaufort.  This  he  sent  through  the  Poate  Bestante,  and 
as  he  sealed  it  he  said  to  himself: 

''  This  is  my  last  hope.  If  this  does  not  bring  him,  I  will  give 
up  my  search." 

Galignani's  Messenger  was  lying  upon  his  table,  but  Uncle 
John  could  not  read.  Even  the  column  upon  the  impending 
crisis  in  America  could  not  fix  his  attention,  and  lighting  his  cigar, 
he  folded  his  arms,  and  leaning  back  in  his  arm-chair,  yielded  him- 
self up  to  something  between  a  reverie  and  a  dream.  He  was  sure 
that  he  was  not  asleep,  and  yet  the  strange  medley  about  Grace 
and  Cameron  Hall,  and  Agnes  and  the  doctor,  and  Charles  Beau- 
fort and  the  dark-looking  stranger  on  the  steamer,  and  Hopedale 
and  Paris,  could  not  be  the  musings  of  a  man  thoroughly  awake. 
From  this  dreamy  state  he  was  aroused  by  an  altercation  in  which 
he  distinctly  heard  his  own  name ;  and  finally,  when  he  was  thor- 
oughly awake,  he  distinguished  the  voice  of  the  concierge,  call- 
ing to  some  one  ascending  the  stairs-: 

''Plus  haut,  Ilonsieurf  plus  haul!  Premitre  etage,  au 
gauche /" 

Uncle  John  now  rose,  crushed  the  white  ashes  from  his  cigar, 
and  opened  his  door  just  as  the  stranger  reached  the  landing  and 
stood  hesitating  at  which  door  to  knock.  The  light  from  the 
lamp  fell  upon  a  lithe,  active  figure,  rather  tall,  with  a  bright, 
cheerful  face  and  a  head  of  curling  brown  hair,  and  Uncle  John 
exclaimed  involuntarily: 


128  CAMERON    HALL. 

"William  Beaufort  I" 

"Not  quite,  Uncle  John,"  he  answered,  grasping  his  hand. 
"William  Beaufort's  son." 

He  followed  Uncle  John  into  the  room,  who  stood  looking 
thoughtfully  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  said : 

"  The  same,  the  very  same  !  William  Beaufort  over  again  1 
•  Welcome,  my  dear  boy,  welcome  !" 

"I  was  afraid,  sir,  that  I  would  not  find  you  at  home  at  this 
hour.     Everybody  in  Paris  is  in  the  street  at  this  time." 

"I  never  go  out,  Charles." 

"  Never  go  out  iu  Paris,  sir  I  Well,  what  on  earth  did  you 
come  for  ?" 

"Come  here  and  I  will  show  you." 

He  led  the  way  into  Agnes's  room,  and  Charles  followed.  They 
went  to  the  bedside,  and  the  light  from  the  lamp  in  Uncle  John's 
hand  streamed  full  upon  her  face. 

Charles  looked  inquiringly  at  Uncle  John,  but  receiving  no 
answer,  he  said : 

"  Uncle  John,  I  always  understood  from  my  father  that  you  were 
an  old  bachelor." 

"  So  I  am,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"Well,  what  does  it  mean?"  asked  Charles. 

Just  then  Agnes  stirred,  and  Uncle  John  whispered : 

"Come  out,  we  must  not  awaken  her." 

"Anybody  might  knbw.  Uncle  John,"  he  said,  laughing,  as  he 
closed  the  door  after  him,  "that  you  are  an  old  bachelor,  and  had 
never  been  accustomed  to  children  ;  the  idea  of  holding  a  lamp 
with  the  blaze  streaming  into  a  child's  eyes  and  not  expect  to 
awaken  her  I" 

"Ah,  my  dear  boy !"  he  replied,  sadly  shaking  his  head,  "would 
to  God  it  were  so  !  She  is  blind,  Charles,  totally  blind,  and  this 
is  my  mission  to  Paris.  Sit  down,  and  let  me  tell  you  all  about 
it." 

Uncle  John  told  the  whole  story,  from  the  beginning  of  his  ac- 
quaintance with  Agnes  in  the  twilight  darkness  of  the  village 
church,  up  to  the  time  when  she  had  gone  to  bed  two  hours  be- 
fore with  the  tears  upon  her  cheeks  and  a  heavy  heart  in  view  of 
her  approaching  suffering.     When  he  had  finished,  he  said : 

"You  do  not  wonder  now  that  I  do  not  go  out,  do  you?  I 
have  taken  that  helpless  child  away  from  her  mother;  I  promised 
her  to  be  faithful  to  the  trust — and  I  will  I" 

"  No,  sir,  I  no  longer  wonder  that  I  found  you  at  home.  Have 
you  any  well-grounded  hope  of  success  ?" 

"I  have  nothing  on  which  to  build  any  hope,  and  have  come 
now  to  satisfy  her  mother  and  myself,  and  see  if  Delascelles  can 
do  anything  for  her." 


CAMERON    HALL.  12-9 

"Delascelles  I"  exclaimed  Charles.  "  If  anybody  iu  the  world 
can  help  her,  he  is  the  man  !" 

"  So  I  believe,  Charles.  lie  was  at  the  head  of  his  profession 
when  I  left  here  several  years  ago,  and  I  knew  him  then  to  be 
not  only  a  capable  but  also  an  honest  man  in  his  profession." 

"  Yes,  sir,  you  are  right.  He  will  deal  truly  and  frankly  with 
you,  and  if  he  tells  you  that  nothing  can  be  done,  you  may  rely 
upon  it.     When  is  he  to  see  her?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  is  not  more  than  an  hour  since  I  put  ray 
note  to  him  in  the  letter-box.  I  requested  an  early  appointment, 
for  I  am  tired  of  this  suspense.  At  the  same  time,  Cliarles,  I 
dropped  a  note  to  you,  addressed  to  the  Poste  Reatante,  and  de- 
termined if  that  did  not  bring  you  to  give  up  the  search." 

"It  would  have  brought  me,  sir,  for  I  receive  all  my  letters  that 
way  now ;  but  it  would  not  have  reached  me  before  to-morrow,  and 
I  am  very  glad  that  accident  sent  me  to  you  to-night.  But  I  have 
had  a  search  for  you." 

"How  so?  I  am  in  the  very  heart  of  the  city,  and  I  took  spe- 
cial pains  to  write  my  address  distinctly." 

"Oh,  sir,  the  fault  was  entirely  in  my  own  stupidity.  But  be- 
fore I  begin  my  story,  let  me  ask  you  how  did  you  know  that  I 
had  ever  lived  in  the  Rue  St.  Florentin  ?" 

"  The  last  letter  that  you  wrote  me  before  I  left  home  was  dated 
there.  I  had  scarcely  any  hope  that  you  were  still  there,  for  I 
know  that  sojourners  in  Paris  boarding-houses  are  generally  birds 
of  passage,  but  I  did  not  know  where  to  find  you,  and  so  I  de- 
termined to  try  every  possible  place." 

"It  was  very  well  that  you  did,  as  the  result  proved,  although 
I  removed  from  there  two  months  ago." 

"  How,  then,  did  you  get  my  note  ?" 

"I  went  this  evening  to  call  upon  my  landlady.  She  is  the 
only  one  of  all  that  I  have  lived  with  for  whom  I  have  any  re- 
gard ;  for  she  is  a  warm  hearted,  honest  woman,  whose  soul  does 
not  wear  the  impress  of  a  franc.  We  are  quite  good  friends,  and 
I  only  left  her  house  because  it  is  so  far  from  the  hospitals,  and 
every  week  or  so  I  call  in  to  exchange  a  few  kind  words  with  her. 
She  gave  me  your  note  this  evening,  saying  that  it  had  been  there 
several  days.  I  hurried  off  to  find  you,  and  putting  the  note  into 
my  pocket,  went  in  at  270  Rue  de  Rivoli  and  demanded  your  name 
of  the  concierge.  He  shook  his  head,  and  declared  that  there 
■was  no  such  resident  in  that  house.  But  I  have  lived  here  long 
enough  to  be  pretty  well  acquainted  with  that  profession,  and  his 
assurances  that  you  were  not  there  failed  to  convince  me  ;  so  I 
took  the  book  and  looked  at  the  names  myself,  but  yours  was  not 
there.     I  turned  away  disappointed,  and  was  sauntering  slowly 


130  CAMERON    HALL. 

down  the  street,  wondering  if  I  should  ever  find  yon,  and  think- 
ing how  tantalizing  it  was  to  know  that  I  liad  a  friend  some- 
where in  Paris,  and  yet  that  he  might  just  as  well  be  across  the 
ocean,  when  I  thought  of  looking  at  your  note  again.  Then  I 
found  that  I  had  mistaken  the  number,  and  with  a  blessing  on  my 
stupidity  I  hastened  here.  The  concierge  immediately  recog- 
nized your  name,  and  directed  me  to  your  apartment;  but,  mis- 
taking, as  I  always  do,  the  entresol  for  the  first  floor,  I  was  bat- 
tering away  furiously  at  the  door  of  a  room  that  it  seems  had  no 
occupant,  when  he  screamed  at  me  from  below,  and  cursing  'the 
stupid  Englishman,'  made  me  understand  that  I  must  go  up  an- 
other flight  of  steps.  Accordingly,  I  mounted,  and  when  I 
reached  the  landing  I  could  not  find  the  bell,  and  was  hesitating 
at  which  one  of  three  doors  to  knock,  and,  in  view  of  my  many 
difiSculties,  was  muttering :  'per  varies  casus,  per  tot  discrimina 
rerum,^  etc.,  when  the  door  opened  and  revealed  you." 

"And  glad  am  I,  my  dear  boy,  that,  after  all  your  'varios 
casus,''  you  have  at  last  made  your  way  to  me.  I  am  lonely, 
Charles,  very  lonely,  especially  at  this  hour.  I  get  along  well 
enough  during  the  day,  for  Agnes  occupies  my  thoughts  and 
attention ;  but  at  night,  when  she  is  asleep,  I  cannot  go  out  and 
leave  her,  and  so  I  spend  some  very  solitary  hours.  She  has 
been  several  times  to  the  opera,  but  hereafter  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  take  her  less  frequently,  for  she  is  delicate,  and  the  late  hours 
and  the  excitement  of  so  much  music  are  not  good  for  her." 

"  Nor  will  such  close  confinement  be  good  for  you.  Uncle  John. 
Could  you  not  find  some  middle-aged  French  woman  with  whom 
you  would  be  willing  to  trust  Agnes  sometimes?" 

"  Xo,  I  cannot  punish  her  so  much  as  that.  She  is  afraid  of 
strangers  and  foreigners,  and  besides,  I  promised  her  mother  to 
take  care  of  her,  and  I  prefer  to  do  it  myself" 

The  conversation  then  turned  upon  the  family  at  the  Hall,  and 
Charles  inquired  about  his  friends,  with  interest,  but,  as  Julia  had 
predicted,  he  spoke  of  them  all  together.  Uncle  John  gave  him 
Eva's  message,  to  which  he  replied : 

I  am  much  obliged  for  her  kind  remembrance  of  me.  I  spent 
many  pleasant  hours  with  her,  for  she  was  a  gay,  light-hearted 
child,  full  of  enterprise  and  energy,  with  a  perfect  passion  for  ex- 
ploring, and  she  and  I  have  had  some  rare  expeditions  over  the 
hills  and  through  the  woods." 

^ "  Child,  indeed  1"  answered  Uncle  John,  laughing.  I  must 
give  you  to  understand,  sir,  that  she  is  now  bearing  the  dignity, 
and  entitled  to  the  respect  due  to  full  sixteen  years !" 

"  I  beg  her  pardon.  Uncle  John  !  and  yet  1  greatly  fear 
that  I  will  be  long  in  learning  to  consider  her  a  young  lady ;  for 


CAMERON    HALL.  131 

unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken,  there  is  a  child-like  simplicity  in 
her  character  that  will  outlive  her  childhood  many  years." 

"You  are  right,  Charles;  and  I  have  never  known  any  one 
who  can  better  atFord  to  wear,  for  a  long  time,  the  graces  of 
childhood." 

"  Yes,  sir  :  her  impulse  and  ardor  and  childish  abandon  in 
her  enjoyment  of  life  are  very  attractive,  and  she  will  most 
probably  win  much  more  admiration  from  the  world  than  her 
quiet  sister." 

"  There  is  scarcely  a  doubt  of  that,  Charles ;  and  yet  Julia 
has  more  depth  and  strength  of  character  than  half-a-dozen  such 
children  as  Eva, — not,"  he  added  hastily,  "that  I  would  detract 
anything  from  Eva,  for  the  child  is  very  dear  to  me,  and  is  the 
light  and  sparkle  of  the  Hall,  but  Julia  is  its  strength  and  sup- 
port." 

"So  I  should  imagine,"  he  replied,  thoughtfully.  "Even  in 
those  few  weeks,  with  all  her  reserve  and  timidity,  I  discovered 
the  strength  and  solidity  of  her  character." 

"And  she  has  energy,  too,"  said  Uncle  John  ;  "  an  energy  that 
quietly  but  certainly  surmounts^  difificulties." 

Charles  did  not  reply,  and  there  was  a  pause,  which  Uncle 
John  broke  by  saying,  abruptly  : 

"You  must  go  home  with  us,  my  boy,  can't  you  ?" 

"That  depends  upon  when  you  are  going." 

"I  shall  return  in  September  or  October,  if  it  is  possible." 

"  Then,  Uncle  John,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  cannot  go  with 
you.  I  hope  to  get  home  in  time  to  eat  my  Christmas  dinner, 
but  not  before." 

"  Christmas  dinner  I  I  thought  that  your  term  of  absence  would 
expire  long  before  that." 

"  So  it  would  have  done,  if  I  had  not  spent  those  three  months 
in  Italy,  away  from  my  studies.  I  must  stay  now  to  atone  for 
that  lost  time  ;  otherwise  I  should  be  just  ready  to  return  with 
you.  I  wish  that  I  could  go,  for  I  am  tired  of  my  life  here,  and 
anxious  enough  to  get  home  once  more." 

"  Then,  since  you  cannot  gratify  me  in  this,  perhaps  you  can 
in  something  else.  Can  we  not  arrange  matters  so  that  we  may 
be  together  while  I  stay  in  Paris  ?" 

"  I  should  like  nothing  better.  As  we  are  situated  at  present 
we  can  see  but  little  of  each  other,  for  my  rooms  are  quite  a  dis- 
tance from  here,  across  the  river,  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 
It  is  possible,  however,  that  you  may  find  it  necessary  to  remove 
there  yourself,  as  you  will  then  be  near  the  office  and  residence 
of  Delascelles." 

"  Well,  if  he  thinks  it  advisable,  I  will  remove  there,  in  order 


132  CAMERON    HALL. 

to  be  near  him,  bnt  I  have  a  great  objection  to  taking  Agnes 
into  that  quarter  of  the  city.  Its  narrow  streets  and  confined 
air  must  render  it  unhealthy,  and  she  will  lose,  besides,  the  advan- 
tage of  being  near  the  Palace  Gardens,  where  she  can  walk  with- 
out danger  from  carriages  and  omnibuses.  I  should  particularly 
dislike  to  change  my  location,  on  her  account." 

"I  shall  await  your  decision.  Uncle  John,  and  make  my  ar- 
rangements accordingly,  for  I  am  resolved  to  be  with  you,  even 
at  the  expense  of  inconvenience.  If  I  live  in  this  part  of  the 
city,  it  will  make  my  walk  every  day  much  longer,  but  perhaps 
that  will  not,  after  all,  be  objectionable.  So  if  you  decide  to  re- 
main here,  and  your  landlady  can  accommodate  me,  I  will  take 
my  lodgings  here  also  ;  and  if  not,  I  will  find  a  place  as  near  you 
as  possible." 

"  The  landlady  will  most  certainly  accommodate  you,  my 
boy,"  answered  Uncle  John,  smiling,  "  since  I  represent  that 
personage  myself.  I  never  could  have  even  a  temporary  home 
where  William  Beaufort's  son  could  not  be  accommodated." 

"  You  don't  really  mean.  Uncle  John,  that  you  have  rented 
the  whole  apartment,  and  have  gone  regularly  to  housekeep- 
ing ?" 

"  I  really  mean  that  I  have  rented  the  apartment ;  as  to  my 
housekeeping,  that  is  neither  very  elaborate  nor  very  trouble- 
some. I  have  hired  a  valet,  who  does  a  little  of  everything; 
among  the  rest,  brings  our  three  meals  a  day  from  a  neighboring 
restaurant.  A  woman  from  the  apartment  above,  comes  every 
morning  and  night  to  attend  to  Agnes,  and  act  as  chambermaid, 
and  so  we  live  very  quietly  and  comfortably.  We  have  our  meals 
when  we  please,  and  order  what  we  please,  are  not  restricted  and 
fettered  by  boarding-house  rules,  and,  above  all,  Agnes  is  alon^ 
with  me,  and  perfectly  at  her  ease  and  at  home.  She  shrinks 
from  foreigners,  and  it  is  positively  amusing  to  see  how  closely 
she  nestles  up  to  me  as  soon  as  she  hears  a  French  word.  She 
was  extremely  averse  to  her  chambermaid  at  first,  but  the  woman 
is  kind,  so  that  now  she  begins  to  tolerate  her." 

"  I  sincerely  hope,  sir,  that  Delascelles  will  advise  you  to  re- 
main where  you  are,  for,  indeed,  I  like  this  arrangement  exceed- 
ingly. I  have  been  tossed  about  so  much,  and  subjected  so  long 
to  the  whims  and  caprices  of  'my  landlady,'  that  it  will  be  a  real 
pleasure  to  be  at  home  with  Uncle  John." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Charles,  that  you  will  have  but  little  of  the 
home-feeling,  for,  in  my  long  experience  of  Paris  life,  I  have 
never  found  it  here,  and  least  of  all  will  you  probably  find  it  in 
my  desultory,  bachelor  style  of  housekeeping.  However,  it  will 
be  pleasant  for  us  to  be  together,  and  a  great  relief  to  me  to 


CAMERON    HALL.  133 

have  you  with  me.  I  hope  that  Delascelles  will  see  her  at  once 
and  decide  what  is  to  be  done,  for  her  sake  more  than  for  ray  own, 
for  her  mind  now  dwells  upon  it  so  constantly  that  she  is 
wretched." 

"Poor  child!"  exclaimed  Charles.  "I  only  hope  that  the 
pain  and  suflfering  will  not  be  in  vain.  I  would  like,  Uncle 
John,  to  be  useful  to  you,  but  if  she  is  so  averse  to  strangers,  I 
am  afraid  that  she  will  not  allow  me  to  relieve  you  much." 

"  Your  society  and  presence  at  such  a  time,  my  son,  will  alone 
be  invaluable,  and  will  relieve  me  of  much  anxiety  and  responsi- 
bility. I  am  growing  restless  under  the  delay,  and  heartily  wish 
that  the  whole  thing  were  over  and  her  fate  decided  one  way  or 
the  other !" 

"I  must  bid  you  good-night,  now,  Uncle  John,"  said  Charles, 
rising  to  go,  "for  it  will  be  midnight  long  before  I  get  home,  and 
I  shall  receive  a  blessing  from  my  grumbling,  growling  old  con- 
cierge, as  he  opens  the  door.  There  are  three  or  four  of  us 
young  fellows  in  the  house,  not  very  regular  in  our  hours,  and 
every  night  some  one  or  other  of  us  comes  in  after  midnight,  thus 
arousing  his  wrath  and  bringing  down  a  volley  of  curses  upon 
*  the  stupid,  execrable  English,'  who,  unfortunately,  have  to  bear 
the  sins  of  all  who  speak  their  language." 

The  next  morning  Uncle  John  said  : 

"Agnes,  I  have  a  new  friend  for  you." 

"You  are  friend  enough,  Uncle  John.  I  don't  want  any  more 
until  1  get  home." 

"  But  I  am  sure  that  you  will  like  this  one.  He  is  kind  and 
good,  and  you  will  soon  learn  to  love  him  very  much." 

"  What  is  his  name,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"Dr.  Charles  Beaufort." 

"  Is  he  the  one  that  I  have  heard  Eva  talk  so  much  about  ?" 
she  asked,  brightening  ;  "  and  did  he  write  that  long  letter  about 
Italy,  that  you  and  she  liked  so  much  ?" 

"Yes,  Agnes,  he  is  the  same." 

"  Then  I  will  like  him,"  was  her  only  reply. 

The  cloud  was  upon  her  face  and  upon  her  heart,  and  she 
could  not  be  cheerful.  Uncle  John  tried  in  vain  to  interest  her, 
but  when  he  found  it  impossible,  he  said : 

"  Come,  my  child,  we  must  not  sit  here  in  the  house  this  beau- 
tiful day.  Where  shall  we  go  ?  to  the  garden,  or  to  the  cas- 
cade ?  or  how  would  you  like  for  me  to  take  you  to  the  Louvre, 
and  tell  you  about  some  of  the  beautiful  things  there  ?" 

"W^hat  is  the  Louvre,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"  It  was,  a  long  time  ago,  a  royal  palace,  but  now  it  is  full  of 

12 


134  CAMERON    HALL. 

pictures  and  statues  and  all  kinds  of  curiosities      I  like  the  beau- 
tiful pictures  more  than  anything  else." 

"Oh,  no,  Uncle  John,  not  there!  It  will  make  me  feel  so 
very  blind  I     There  is  nothing  in  the  Louvre  for  the  blind  I" 

"  That  is  true  !"  he  answered,  sadly.  "  Where  will  you  go, 
then  ?  to  the  garden  ?" 

"  I  believe  that  I  would  rather  hear  the  sound  of  the  water-fall 
this  morning  than  anything  else." 

They  drove  out  to  the  cascade,  and  got  out  of  the  carriage, 
and  Uncle  John  led  her  where  she  could  feel  the  spray  upon  her 
cheeks,  and  she  was  soothed  by  the  sound  of  the  falling  waters. 
They  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  but  she  was  not  inclined  to  talk, 
and  Uncle  John  left  her  to  her  own  thoughts,  although  he  well 
knew  how  sad  they  were.  All  that  day  she  was  languid  and 
listless ;  her  animation  and  brightness  were  all  gone,  and  at 
night,  worn  out  in  mind  and  body,  she  went  to  bed  early,  and  so 
missed  seeing  her  new  friend. 

The  first  question  that  he  asked,  when  he  came,  was  : 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Delascelles  ?" 

"Yes,  I  received  a  note  this  morning,  appointing  Thursday,  at 
ten  o'clock,  for  an  examination." 

"  Does  Agnes  know  it  ? 

"  Not  yet.  She  has  been  so  much  depressed  all  day  that  I 
could  not  make  up  my  mind  to -tell  her;  but  she  must  know  it  to- 
morrow. I  have  been  greatly  disappointed  to-day  in  not  getting 
letters.  It  is  the  first  steamer  since  our  arrival  that  has  not 
brought  us  something.  I  think  that  the  disappointment  had 
something  to  do  with  Agnes's  sadness." 

"  The  steamer  is  behind  time.  Uncle  John.  Her  arrival  was 
telegraphed  from  Liverpool  this  afternoon,  and  her  mail  will  be  in 
to-morrow," 

"  The  morrow  brought  the  hoped-for  letters,  very  welcome,  but 
unable  to  make  Agnes  happy.  Her  mother  wrote  cheerfully  and 
hopefully,  and  Uncle  John  trusted  that  the  child  did  not  detect 
the  under-current  of  anxiety  and  dread,  so  evident  to  himself, 
beneath  the  surface  of  loving  words  and  pleasant  tidings.  The 
day  passed  on  quietly  and  heavily.  .Uncle  John's  resources  for 
entertaining  Agnes  were  all  exhausted  in  vain;  and  when  he 
stood  beside  her  bed  that  night,  and  saw  her  asleep,  with  the 
tears  upon  her  cheeks,  he  felt  sincerely  thankful  that  the  morrow 
would  end  all  this  suspense. 

Thursday  morning,  at  the  appointed  hour.  Uncle  John,  Charles 
Beaufort,  and  Agnes  were  rattling  over  the  rough  pavement  of 
the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  It  was  a  silent  ride,  for  the  thoughts 
of  all  were  too  busy  for  words ;  and  when  the  carriage  stopped, 


CAMERON    HALL.  135 

Agnes  shuddered,  and  turned  deadly  pale,  and  Uncle  John  had 
almost  to  carry  her  up  the  long  flight  of  steps  to  the  surgeon's 
room. 

He  looked  compassionately  upon  the  frail  little  patient  before 
him,  with  her  sweet,  gentle  face,  and  her  nervous  clinging  to  her 
friend  and  protector.  He  spoke  kindly  to  her,  and  tried  to  reas- 
sure her;  but  when  he  took  her  hand,  he  saw  her  shrink  from  his 
touch,  although  she  neither  complained  nor  resisted. 

He  looked  long  and  earnestly  into  her  eyes,  and  pausing  once 
or  twice,  resumed  his  examination,  as  if  determined  that  he  would 
not  yield  to  his  first  impression.  Uncle  John  watched  his  face 
with  painful  anxiety,  and  when  the  surgeon  turned  and  looked  at 
him,  and  with  a  mournful,  but  decided  shake  of  the  head,  more 
expressive  than  words,  signified  that  the  case  was  hopeless,  he 
sank  into  a  chair  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  his 
bitter  disappointment  told  him  how  strong  had  been  his  hope. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken,  and  the  silence  became  oppressive  even 
to  Agnes,  who  presently  asked  : 

"Uncle  John,  what  does  the  doctor  think?" 

With  an  effort,  he  replied,  quietly,  but  with  inexpressible  sad- 
ness : 

"He  will  not  operate,  my  daughter;  it- is  useless." 

Her  face  for  an  instant  beamed  with  its  old  expression,  at  the 
thought  of  release  from  the  dreaded  suffering;  but  the  next  mo- 
ment it  was  clouded  with  a  deeper  gloom  than  Unde  John  had 
ever  seen  upon  it  before.  She  was  a  child,  and  could  not  al- 
together realize  how  long  and  dreary  would  be  the  ray  less  night 
of  all  her  future  life;  but  child  as  she  was,  the  thought  of  being 
always  blind  was  full  of  profoundest  sadness,  and  leaning  her 
cheek  upon  her  hand,  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  smote  the  hearts  of 
her  listeners : 

"Always  blind  !  always  blind !  Uncle  John,  I  feel  more  blind 
than  ever  now !" 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  STRANGER  might  have  thought  that  the  mother's  life,  at 
Hopedale,  was  quiet  and  monotonous  in  the  extreme;  but  her 
friends  knew  well  that  it  was  one  long  and  ever-increasing  anxiety. 
As  ever  before,  so  now,  also,  she  was  patient  and  unobtrusive  ; 
she  did  not  weary  her  friends  with  her  trouble,  or  make  unrea- 


136  CAMERON    HALL. 

sonable  demands  upon  their  sympathy.  Her  duties  were  as  faith- 
fully performed  as  ever,  but  the  all  animating  motive  that  had 
lightened  her  labor  was  withdrawn  with  Ai^nes.  She  had  longed 
for  the  first  letter,  to  tell  her  not  only  of  dangers  passed,  and  of 
their  safe  arrival  at  their  destined  haven,  but  also  to  bring  her 
those  words  of  sympathy  and  encouragement  and  kindness  that 
she  surely  expected  from  her  own  and  her  child's  best  friend. 
The  letter  came ;  she  read  it  again  and  again,  and  at  last,  with 
dissatisfaction  and  disappointment,  she  laid  it  down,  and  wondered 
why  Uncle  John  should  write  to  her  so  coldly  and  formally.  It 
was  singularly  unlike  him,  for  he  was  not  accustomed  to  withhold 
sympathy  even  from  strangers,  when  they  needed  it,  and  especi- 
ally was  it  unlike  all  his  former  intercourse  with  her.  The  friend- 
ship of  years,  and  the  present  peculiar  circumstances,  she  thought, 
entitled  her  to  more  than  an  ordinary  share  of  his  interest  and 
kind  feeling,  and  when  she  painfully  contrasted  the  letters  that 
came  to  her,  with  those  that  Uncle  John  wrote  to  Julia  and  Eva, 
she  was  more  perplexed  than  ever. 

The  life  at  Cameron  Hall  flowed  on  in  its  usual  quiet  channel, 
and  there  the  regular  letter  from  Uncle  John  was  looked  forward 
to  with  eager  anticipation.  They  had  no  reason  to  complain  of 
coldness  or  formality,  fior  they  found  him  in  his  letters  the  same 
warm-hearted  Uncle  John  that  he  had  ever  been  at  home. 

Eva's  gayety  of  disposition  and  light  heart  remained  unaltered. 
She  could  not  be  sobered  or  subdued  even  by  the  anxious  cloud 
that  now  generally  rested  upon  her  father's  face,  and  when  she 
asked,  as  she  often  did:  "What  is  the  matter,  papa?  What 
makes  you  look  so  anxious  ?"  and  he  replied :  "  I  am  watching 
the  signs  of  the  times,  my  daughter;"  she  would  answer  with  a 
merry  laugh,  and  declare  that  she  did  not  believe  there  would 
be  any  war  at  all ;  and  if  there  should  be,  it  would  not  be  half  so 
terrible  as  papa  imagined. 

Julia,  on  the  other  hand,  grew  more  thoughtful  every  day. 
With  her  practical  way  of  looking  at  things,  she  saw  deeper  than 
the  tinsel  of  epaulets  and  the  waving  of  banners,  and  although 
she  really  knew  nothing  of  war  except  its  name,  still  she  had  im- 
plicit confidence  in  her  father's  judgment,  and  felt  assured  that 
what  he  so  much  dreaded  must  be  evil  and  only  evil;  and  so  the 
shadow  of  thoughtful  anxiety  sometimes  rested  upon  her  browas 
well  as  upon  his.  She  thought  much  upon  a  subject  little  calcu- 
lated to  engross  the  attention  of  a  girl  of  her  age.  She  never 
talked  to  Eva  about  it,  for  she  well  knew  that  from  her  child- 
sister  she  would  only  receive  in  reply  a  merry  laugh  or  a  pleasant 
jest ;  but  she  listened  with  thoughtful  interest  to  the  grave  dis- 
cussions of  her  father  and  Mr.  Derby,  who  talked  much  of  the 


CAMERON    HALL.  137 

threatening  aspect  of  affairs,  and  watched  anxiously  the  clouding 
horizon. 

It  was  the  close  of  an  April  day,  April  only  in  its  showers,  for 
there  had  been  no  balminess  or  genial  warmth  in  the  fitful  rains 
and  the  hazy,  powerless  sun ;  Eva  was  standing  at  the  window, 
looking  wearily  out  at  the  rain  as  it  poured  in  the  heaviest  shower 
of  the  day.     Suddenly,  she  exclaimed : 

"Why,  sister,  who  can  that  be  coming  in  such  a  rain  as  this? 
I  do  believe  it  is  Mr.  Derby,  and  he  is  riding  furiously." 

"  I  should  think  he  would  be,"  replied  Julia,  quietly,  as  she 
joined  her  sister  at  the  window.  "  He  must  be  anxious  to  get 
out  of  such  a  pelting  rain.     Yes,  it  is  Mr.  Derby." 

The  sisters  went  down  together  to  receive  him,  and  met  him  at 
the  door. 

"  Where  is  your  father,  girls?"  he  asked,  hurriedly. 

"He  is  riding  over  the  plantation,  Mr.  Derby,"  answered  Julia, 
"  but  will  probably  be  in  in  a  few  minutes.  The  rain  will  drive 
him  home." 

He  follow^ed  the  girls  into  the  library,  but  he  was  troubled  and 
restless,  and  little  inclined  to  talk.  Presently  Mr.  Cameron  came 
in,  and  as  soon  as  Mr.  Derby  heard  his  step,  he  went  out  into  the 
hall  to  meet  him,  and,  when  they  returned  to  the  library,  they 
seated  themselves  in  silence. 

The  girls  looked  anxiously  at  them,  but  said  nothing ;  and  after 
awhile  Mr.  Cameron  said,  very  gravely : 

"It  has  come  sooner  than  I  expected,  Mr.  Derby." 

"What  has  come,  papa  ?"  exclaimed  the  curious  Eva. 

"War,  my  daughter,  war!" 

"War,  papa!"  exclaimed  the  astonished  Julia.  "  Surely  you 
do  not  mean  that  I" 

"  Yes,  Julia,  it  is  even  so.  Uncle  John  was  right ;  we  have 
reached  the  crisis  with  startling  rapidity.  I  did  hope  that  it 
might  have  been  averted,  at  least  until  after  my  time." 

"I  have  long  been  afraid,  sir,  that  I  would  live  to  see  it," 
answered  Mr.  Derby.  "  Public  events  have  been  drifting  that 
way  for  years,  and  compromises,  platforms,  and  all  other  ex- 
pedients have  seemed  to  me  like  trying  to  stem  the  torrent  of 
Niagara  by  throwing  sand  into  the  rapids." 

"  Have  no  particulars  been  received  of  the  surrender  of  Fort 
Sumter  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Cameron. 

"  None  at  all,  sir ;  we  know  nothing  except  the  bare  facts, 
now,  but  we  will  hear  all  in  a  day  or  two,  through  the  news- 
papers. " 

There  was  a  long,  solemn  pause :  the  crisis  was  upon  the  nation, 

12* 


138  CAMERON    HALL. 

and  it  appalled  alike  the  young  and  the  old,  the  reflectinj:^  and 
the  thoughtless.  Eva's  cheek  rested  upon  her  hand,  and  her 
whole  attitude  was  expressive  of  a  thoughtfulness  very  unusual 
for  her.     After  awhile  she  said  : 

"Papa,  I  cannot  see  why  taking  possession  of  a  single  fort 
should  necessarily  be  the  beginning  of  war.  If  everybody  in  the 
country  thinks  like  you  do,  that  it  is  such  a  dreadful  evil,  the 
Northern  people  will  let  the  Charlestonians  have  the  fort  rather 
than  resent  it  at  such  a  fearful  cost.  Besides,  I  don't  under- 
stand what  is  meant  by  their  taking  it,  for  I  should  like  to  know 
if  it  does  not  already  belong  to  them.  If  it  is  in  their  harbor  and 
protects  their  city,  they  certainly  must  have  a  better  right  to  it 
than  anybody  else." 

Mr.  Derby  smiled,  and  her  father  answered  : 

"You  are  in  happy  ignorance,  my  child,  of  the  jealousies  of 
governments,  and  the  machinations  of  politicians.  If  I  could  ex- 
plain to  you  the  causes  of  this  war,  which  have  been  accumulating 
under  my  eyes  for  the  last  thirty  years,  each  one  would  appear  to 
your  unsophisticated  judgment  to  bear  the  same  disproportion  to 
the  tremendous  result,  as  does  the  taking  of  Fort  Sumter  by  the 
Charlestonians  to  a  long  civil  war." 

"But,  papa,"  asked  Julia,  "is  there  no  hope,  even  now,  of 
some  adjustment  or  compromise  ?  I  have  heard  you  say  that 
many  of  the  politicians  who  have  most  strongly  urged  secession 
thought  that  it  could  be  peaceably  effected ;  and  may  it  not  be 
that  when  they  find  themselves  mistaken,  and  see  the  nation 
upon  the  very  eve  of  war,  they  will  be  willing  to  compro- 
mise ?" 

"  It  is  too  late  now.  Politicians  and  fanatics  sometimes  set 
machinery  in  motion  whose  tremendous  power  defies  their  feeble 
attempts  to  stop  it,  and  for  that  reason  they  ought  to  be  very 
sure  that  the  energies  which  they  seek  to  arouse  will  work  for 
good  and  not  for  evil.  No,  my  daughter ;  the  day  of  adjust- 
ment and  compromise  is  over  now.  If  this  news  be  true,  the 
war  is  already  begun,  and  no  power  but  Omnipotence  can 
arrest  it." 

It  was  a  gloomy  evening  at  the  Hall.  The  gentlemen  talked 
of  nothing  but  the  terrible  calamity  that  had  come  upon  the 
nation,  and  the  girls  listened  in  silence  and  awe.  For  once, 
Eva  was  thoroughly  awake  and  interested  in  political  affairs,  and 
as  she  listened,  her  heart  was  oppressed  with  undefined  forebodings, 
and  she  feared  and  dreaded  she  scarcely  knew  what.  When  Mr. 
Derby  left,  there  was  a  cloud  upon  that  family  circle  which  he 
had  never  seen  before;  and  after  he  was  gone,  Mr.  Cameron  sat 
in  silence,  thinking  gloomily  upon  the  nation's  doom.    Eva's  book 


CAMERON    HALL.  139 

was  lying  in  her  Jap  with  her  finger  between  the  leaves,  but  its 
pages  no  longer  interested  her ;  imaginary  troubles  and  fictitious 
characters  were  altogether  insignificant  to  one  who  might  soon 
herself  be  a  participator  in  scenes  and  sufferings  before  which  the 
highest-wrought  coloring  of  romance  would  pale  and  fade.  She 
tried  various  expedients  to  drive  away  her  thoughts  and  fears, 
and  perhaps  elsewhere  she  might  have  succeeded,  for  she  was 
accustomed  easily  and  quickly  to  shake  off  trouble ;  but  as  long 
as  she  saw  her  father  and  sister  in  their  attitude  of  sad  re- 
flection, she  could  neither  forget  its  cause  nor  resist  its  influ- 
ence. 

Julia,  like  her  father,  sat  still  and  thought.  She  thought  of 
what  Uncle  John  had  told  her  would  be  the  duty  of  Southern 
women ;  of  the  privations,  the  anxieties,  the  sorrows,  the  be- 
reavements that  they  would  have  to  bear,  and  she  wondered  if 
she  would  have  the  strength  and  fortitude  to  do  and  to  bear  her 
part. 

The  days  and  weeks  passed  by,  and  the  trumpet-call  to  arms 
sounded  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  this  once  peaceful 
country,  and  marshaled  into  battle  array  the  brethren  of  a  once 
united  nation.  Fierce,  vindictive,  and  flippant  threats  of  "crush- 
ing the  rebellion  in  sixty  days,"  stirred  the  Northern  people,  and 
they  flocked  to  the  standard  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  determined 
to  chastise  into  submission,  by  one  severe  blow,  their  recreant 
Southern  brethren.  Southern  men,  too,  flocked  to  their  standard, 
and  mothers,  wives,  and  sisters  sent  ofi"  with  a  blessing  and  a 
God-speed  those  they  loved  best  on  earth,  hiding  the  heartache  and 
the  tears  until  the  loved  ones  were  out  of  sight.  The  demon  of 
war  was  pre-eminent  in  the  land,  and  in  his  blighting  path  all 
the  arts  of  peace  and  prosperity  were  at  once  consumed.  The 
whole  nation  was,  by  a  sudden  metamorphosis,  transformed  into 
an  army.  The  bugle  and  the  drum  were  heard  instead  of  the 
busy,  restless  hum  of  the  manufactory;  the  drill  and  the  camp 
became  at  once  familiar  to  those  who  before  had  been  utter 
strangers  to  both ;  the  plow-share  was  exchanged  for  the  sword, 
and  the  pruning-hook  for  the  spear,  and  war,  only  war,  was 
thought  of  and  talked  of  throughout  the  land.  The  old,  whose 
experience  had  taught  them  somewhat  of  its  horrors,  saw,  with 
agony,  the  upheaving  nation ;  the  young,  full  of  the  ardor  and 
impulse  belonging  to  their  years,  entered  the  ranks,  buoyant  with 
hope  and  reckless  of  danger;  and  while  fathers  encouraged  their 
sons  to  go,  they  watched  them  with  a  pang  as  they  left  their 
homes  so  brave  and  joyous  and  full  of  life,  and  so  unconscious  of 
the  weary  march,  the  bleeding  feet,  the  fainting  thirst,  the  wasting 
fever,  the  bloody  battle-field  I 


140  CAMERON    HALL. 

Mr.  Cameron  had  promised  to  himself  to  keep  his  private  de- 
cision in  abeyance  until  the  State  had  spoken  ;  but  while  Virginia 
still  hesitated,  he,  among  many  other  of  her  sons,  became  daily 
stronger  in  his  conviction  of  what  she  ought  to  do,  and  trembled 
lest  the  fear  of  suffering  should  warp  her  judgment  and  determine 
her  action. 

Reluctant  to  sunder  the  ties  which  had  been  cemented  by  the 
blood  of  the  best  and  noblest  of  her  sons ;  loth  to  pull  down  with 
her  hand  one  single  stone  of  that  fabric  whose  foundation  her  own 
Washington  had  laid ;  yet  equally  unwilling  to  surrender  a  single  . 
one  of  those  rights  which  he  himself  had  taught  her  to  value  more 
than  life,  the  Old  Dominion  determined  to  make  one  more  effort, 
and  the  last,  to  secure  her  rights  as  a  Southern  State  in  the 
Union.  The  delegation  to  Washington  was  a  failure,  for  fanati- 
cism ruled  in  the  halls  of  justice,  and  despotism  had  usurped  the 
throne  of  liberty.  Then  Virginia  spoke  out  nobly  and  indig- 
nantly, and  without  a  regret  severed  the  tie  that  bound  her  to  a 
government  which  had  proved  recreant  to  its  trust  and  duty. 

From  the  first,  Walter  Cameron  had  begged  permission  to 
enter  the  army,  and  Julia  read  with  pride  and  pleasure  his  earn- 
est appeals  to  his  father.  She  wondered  that  her  father  could 
resist  them,  but  she  said  not  a  word,  for  she  felt  that  the  respon- 
sibility rested  not  with  her.  Mr.  Cameron  felt  for  his  native 
State  such  a  degree  of  reverence  that,  although  his  convictions 
were  now  fixed,  still  he  waited  for  the  public  formal  act  of  seces- 
sion by  the  State,  before  he  threw  himself,  heart  and  soul,  into 
the  war.  As  soon,  however,  as  this  was  done,  he  wrote  to  his 
son,  not  only  giving  his  consent,  but  making  a  special  request 
that  he  would  join  the  army  at  once,  and  bidding  him  come  home 
for  that  purpose.  The  delighted  youth  needed  no  urging,  but 
obeyed  the  summons  instantly.  Julia  welcomed  him  with  a  min- 
gled feeling  of  pleasure,  pride,  and  sadness ;  and  as  she  looked  at 
the  tall,  athletic  youth,  so  full  of  life  and  promise,  she  felt  proud 
of  the  offering  that  she  was  about  to  make  to  her  country,  and 
yet  trembled  lest  his  blood  too  should  be  required.  Not  so  with 
Eva.  She  had  now  become  accustomed  to  the  name  and  thought 
of  war,  and  as  yet  had  only  seen  its  bright  and  glitiering  ex- 
terior. She  and  her  sister  frequently  rode  into  town  in  the  after- 
noon to  see  the  company  drill,  and  the  bright  faces,  the  fresh, 
new  uniforms,  and  the  stalwart  forms  full  of  health  and  strength 
appealed  to  her  fancy,  and  she  thought,  with  delight,  of  adding 
a  brave,  handsome  soldier  boy  to  its  ranks.  Besides,  Walter 
was  at  home,  and  this  alone  was  happiness  enough  for  Eva. 
She  thought  not  of  the  long  separation,  of  the  danger  and  hard- 
ship on  his  part,  and  the  loneliness  and  anxiety  on  her  own ;  all 


CAMERON    HALL.  141 

this  she  left  for  that  future  to  which  it  belonged,  and  with  all 
her  heart  and  soul  she  now  gave  herself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of 
her  brother's  society.  Meanwhile,  Julia,  with  a  mother's  fore- 
thought, provided  for  Walter  everything  necessary  to  his  health 
and  comfort  in  camp,  and  collected  for  him  many  little  conve- 
niences which,  months  afterward,  when  he  was  far  away  from 
home  and  family,  brought  a  tear  to  the  young  soldier's  eye  as  ho 
recognized  in  them  the  proofs  of  her  thoughtful  love. 

Neither  Walter  nor  his  father  had  any  undue  ambition,  and 
both  were  quite  willing  that  he  should  enter  the  ranks  as  a 
private,  and  rise  as  his  services  and  merits  demanded. 

In  all  her  conversations  with  him,  Julia  sought  to  impress  him 
with  the  idea  that  he  must  enter  the  army  and  do  his  duty  there 
from  conscientious  motives ;  she  begged  him  to  realize  in  the 
beginning  that  it  was  not  pastime  and  adventure,  lest  when  the 
novelty  should  wear  off  and  privation  begin,  his  spirit  should  fail 
and  his  energies  relax;  and  she  urged  him  to  remember  that  so 
long  as  his  country  had  need  of  him  he  was  bound  to  serve  her, 
and  to  keep  firmly  at  his  post,  not  asking  a  furlough  until  long 
service  had  entitled  him  to  a  respite,  and  he  could  be  well 
spared. 

The  night  before  Walter's  departure,  a  few  minutes  after  he 
had  gone  to  his  room,  he  heard  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door.  It  was 
Julia,  and  she  said,  as  he  opened  it : 

"Come,  Walter,  just  for  a  moment." 

He  followed  her  into  her  own  room,  where  she  unlocked  an 
old-fashioned  writing-desk  and  took  out  a  small  and  much  worn 
prayer-book.      She  put  it  in  his  hand,  and  said  : 

"  Wear  it,  Walter,  always  about  your  person ;  it  was  our 
mother's,  and  God  bless  it  to  you,  Walter  dear  !" 

The  next  day  a  company  of  volunteers,  comprising  all  the 
youthful  promise  of  the  town,  departed  from  Hopedale,  leaving 
in  many  a  home-circle  an  empty  chair,  and  hearts  more  empty 
still.  Bright  banners  and  martial  music,  the  smiles  of  the  young 
and  fair,  and  beautiful  bouquets,  made  outwardly  a  gay  pageant; 
but  in  the  crowd  there  were  not  wanting  those  who  looked  with 
apprehension  a  little  way  into  the  future  and  saw  another  proces- 
sion, but,  alas!  how  different! — with  arms  reversed,  and  wailing 
music,  bringing  some  comrade  back  indeed  to  his  home,  but  only 
to  be  laid  away  in  that  quiet  resting-place  whose  silence  the  thun- 
ders of  war  can  never  break. 

Walter  Cameron  cared  nothing  for  the  music,  or  the  flowers,  or 
the  throng.  With  his  cap  pulled  over  his  brow,  his  lips  com- 
pressed, and  his  face  rigid,  he  marched  along  mechanically,  for 
his  heart  was  at  home  with  the  sobbing  Eva  and  the  elder  sister, 


142  CAMERON    HALL. 

who  had,  with  one  stifled  cry,  and  her  eyes  swimming  in  tears, 
strained  him  to  her  heart,  bid  him  be  faithful  to  his  country, 
blessed  him,  and  sent  him  away. 

Very  quiet  and  very  sad  was  the  next  week  at  tlie  Hall.  In 
the  agony  of  parting  with  her  brother,  Eva  had  first  tasted  the 
suffering  of  war.  Hers  was  a  warm,  loving  heart,  and  it  clung 
tenaciously  to  Walter,  her  brother  and  companion.  "  Her  soul 
was  knit  with  his,"  and,  in  her  sorrow,  she  was  convinced  that 
this,  her  first  trial,  was  the  hardest  of  all;  that  the  war  could 
bring  her  no  sorer  one  than  to  give  up  Walter.  It  was  not  her 
habit  to  anticipate  evil;  she  thought  not  of  danger,  wounds,  or 
death;  all  that  she  thought  of  was  the  present  separation,  and 
even  this,  the  first  cloud  that  had  ever  darkened  her  life  of  sunshine, 
seemed  intolerable.  Her  father  and  sister  watched  her  in  silence 
as  she  gave  way  to  all  the  impetuosity  of  cliildish  grief,  and  they 
only  hoped  and  prayed  that  the  war  might  bring  to  that  bright 
young  heart  no  severer  discipline  or  more  bitter  experience  than 
this,  its  first  sorrow.  Julia  was  outwardly  the  same.  Not  one 
of  her  duties  was  neglected  or  forgotten ;  the  only  difference  was, 
that  while  generally  this  was  her  pleasure,  now  it  was  an  effort; 
her  heart  and  thoughts  were  evidently  far  away  in  a  distant  camp, 
with  a  soldier  boy,  for  whom  she  felt  a  mother's  rather  than  a 
sister's  love. 

Walter  had  been  gone  a  week.  They  were  lingering  one  morn- 
ing at  the  breakfast-table  after  everything  had  been  removed,  the 
girls  talking  of  their  brother,  and  Mr.  Cameron  looking  over  the 
newspaper  which  the  servant  had  just  brought.  Suddenly  the 
girls  were  startled  by  a  muttered  ejaculation  that  sounded  like  a 
curse,  and  looking  up  in  surprise  and  terror  at  something  so  un- 
usual from  their  father,  their  dismay  was  not  lessened  when  they 
saw  his  face.  Julia  sprang  up  and  went  to  him,  and  asked  trem- 
bling : 

"What  is  it,  father?" 

"Disgrace!  disgrace!"  he  answered,  almost  fiercely,  and,  dash- 
ing the  paper  down  upon  the  table,  he  left  the  room. 
-  Julia  took  it  up,  and  was  not  long  in  finding  the  cause  of  her 
father's  strange  excitement,  and  with  a  groan  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  By  this  time,  Eva's  suspense  and  astonishment 
had  become  intolerable,  and  she  said,  in  a  beseeching  toner 

"Oh,  sister,  tell  me,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Julia  silently  pointed  to  the  paragraph,  and  Eva  read. 

It  was  an  extract  from  a  Northern  newspaper,  a  compliment- 
ary notice  of  Captain  George  Cameron,  who,  though  himself  a 
native  Yirginian,  and  his  father  an  influential  citizen  of  that 
State,  and  a  warm  secessionist,  was,  nevertheless,  so  conscientious 


CAMERON    HALL.  143 

a  patriot,  and  so  loyal  to  the  Union,  that  he  had  accepted  a  cap- 
tain's commission  in  the  Federal  array. 

Eva  was  astounded.  She  knew  nothing  of  George  that  was 
good,  but  she  knew  that  he  was  her  father's  son,  and,  therefore, 
she  believed  him  incapable  of  such  a  deed.  Dashing  the  paper 
down,  she  exclaimed  indignantly ; 

"It  is  false,  every  word  of  it  I  George  may  not  be  good,  but 
he  is  a  Cameron,  and  a  Cameron  cannot  be  a  traitoT !" 

Poor  Julia  groaned  aloud.  To  her  proud  spirit  and  uncom- 
promising principle  this  was,  indeed,  a  heavy  blow.  She  thought 
of  her  other  brother's  departure  for  the  same  war ;  of  her  loving 
words  of  advice;  of  his  solemn  promise  to  be  faithful;  and  she 
remembered,  too,  the  sad  farewell ;  the  heartache  when  he  was 
gone ;  the  fear  lest  he  might  never  return.  All  this,  however, 
seemed  as  nothing,  as  less  than  nothing,  in  comparison  with  this 
great  trouble.  Sorrow  may  be  borne,  but  to  a  high,  noble  spirit, 
there  is  no  agony  like  the  sense  of  shame  and  dishonor. 

Eva  looked  at  her  sister  in  surprise,  for  she  had  never  seen  her 
overpowered  before.  Her  own  grief  had  never  before  made  her 
forgetful  of  the  comfort  of  others,  but  now,  when  she  went  to  her 
own  room  and  locked  herself  in,  forgetful  of  father,  sister,  house- 
hold duties,  and  the  whole  world,  Eva  learned  more  from  its  ef- 
fect upon  her  sister  than  from  her  own  feelings,  the  extent  of  the 
calamity  that  had  fallen  upon  their  household.  She  herself  had 
never  regarded  George  as  a  brother.  The  idea  of  his  bearing 
the  same  relationship  to  her  as  her  darling  Walter,  had  never  oc- 
curred to  her;  and  while  her  heart  rebelled  at  the  thousrht  of  a 
Cameron  being  a  traitor,  it  was  rather  because  he  bore  their  name 
than  because  she  felt  bound  to  him  by  the  ties  of  blood,  or  real- 
ized that  his  infamy  could  cast  a  shade  upon  the  family  name. 
Therefore  it  was  that  she  could  not  enter  wholly  into  her  father's 
and  sister's  feelings.  She  only  felt  indignant,  while  they  were 
mortified  and  wounded  in  their  inmost  soul. 

Mr.  Cameron  received  the  blow  in  bitterness  of  spirit.  He 
thought  of  the  child  who  had  marred  the  peace  of  the  household 
by  his  turbulent  and  .unruly  spirit ;  of  the  son,  whose  undutiful 
conduct  had  broken  his  mother's  heart ;  of  the  boy,  who,  in 
anger,  had  left  his  father  and  his  home,  and  whose  hard  heart  had 
not,  even  in  the  lapse  of  years,  been  sufficiently  softened  to  send 
back  to  that  father  one  word  of  regret  or  affection.  He  could 
not  wonder  that  such  a  son  should  prove  a  traitor  to  his  country; 
he  could  only  regret  in  bitterness  and  sorrow  that  that  son  should 
be  his  own.  He  had  dreaded  war;  he  thought  that  he  had  enu- 
merated its  evils,  and  fortified  his  mind  for  its  hardships;  but 
among  all  its  dire  calamities  he  had  not  reckoned  this,  the  direst 


144  CAMERON    HALL. 

of  them  all.  He  had  feared  to  lose  Walter,  bis  pride  and  hope, 
and  yet  he  might,  with  a  Spartan  heart,  have  laid  his  son  upon 
his  country's  altar;  but  to  give  one  to  his  country's  enemies  ;  to 
see  his  own  son's  arm  raised  against  the  land  tliat  gave  him  birth, 
his  own,  his  father's  home, — no  wonder  that  Mr.  Cameron  groaned 
in  anguish  of  spirit  whenever  bethought  of  George! 

The  aspect  of  the  hall  was  changed.  Instead  of  its  social  at- 
mosphere, there  was  silence,  constraint.  In  bereavement,  we  love 
to  hear  the  name  of  the  lost  one,  and  cannot  feel  that  he  is  wholly 
gone  so  long  as  we  can  speak  of  him  ;  but  the  trouble  of  the  Cam- 
eron family  admitted  of  no  such  splace.  Each  heart  bore  its  sor- 
row in  silence  and  loneliness,  and  George,  though  the  burden  of 
the  thoughts  of  all,  was  a  forbidden  name.  Even  Mr.  Derby,  the 
friend  and  pastor,  found  himself,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  pow- 
erless to  console,  and  his  visits  to  the  hall  were  neither  the  social 
ones  of  old  nor  the  sympathizing  ones  that  he  would  now  have 
liked  to  make  them. 

A  fortnight  had  now  passed  away,  a  long,  dreary  fortnight, 
which,  to  Eva  especially,  had  seemed  interminable.  She  had  not 
been  able  to  persnade  her  sister  even  to  ride  into  town,  for  Julia 
seemed  to  shrink  from  observation,  and  Eva  wondered  if  she  in- 
tended hereafter  to  make  a  recluse  of  herself.  They  had  not 
heard  a  word  from  Grace  for  several  days,  when,  one  morning,  to 
their  great  surprise,  she  walked  out  to  the  Hall.  In  all  the  years 
of  her  residence  in  Hopedale  she  had  never  crossed  the  threshold 
of  Cameron  Hall  until  Agnes  was  gone.  Their  invitations  had 
always  been  so  gently,  but  persistently,  refused,  that  they  had 
long  ago  ceas'ed  to  ask  her ;  but  one  day,  not  long  after  Agnes  had 
left,  they  found  her  so  depressed  and  lonely  that  they  once  more 
invited  her  to  go  home  with  them,  and  were  both  pleased  'and 
surprised  when  she  at  once  accepted  the  proposal.  Since  then 
they  had  frequently  sent  for  her,  and  she  had  never  refused  to 
come.  She  seemed  to  feel  that  now,  in  Agnes's  absence,  she  had 
a  claim  upon  her  friends  which  she  did  not  have  when  the  child 
was  at  home ;  and,  either  because  she  loved  to  be  with  those  whom 
Agnes  loved,  or  from  some  other  unexplained  reason,  she  was  now 
always  willing  to  go  to  Cameron  Hall.  She  had,  however,  never 
before  attempted  to  walk,  and  when  Julia  heard  Eva  exclaim: 
"Why,  sister,  there  is  Grace  Merton  coming  up  the  lawn,  and  she 
is  actually  walking,"  she  hurried  to  meet  her,  afraid  that  she  might 
have  bad  news  from  Agnes,  and  assured  that  she  must  have  had 
some. powerful  motive  to  induce  her  thus  to  come. 

She  was  very  tired  and  very  sad,  and  when  Julia  asked  about 
Agnes  her  eyes  filled,  and  she  silently  gave  her  a  letter.  The 
first  few  lines  told  all.    The  doctor  had  pronounced  Agnes  hope- 


CAMERON     HALL.  145 

lessly  blind.  The  girls  insisted  that  she  should  remain  a  day  or 
two  at  the  Hall,  to  which  she  consented,  for  she  felt  that  there,  if 
anywhere  on  earth,  among  her  child's  best  friends,  she  might  ex- 
pect sympathy  and  kindness  at  such  a  time.  Agnes's  friends 
were  disappointed  as  well  as  her  mother;  the  result  had  proved 
how  much  hope  they  had  all  unconsciously  built  upon  the  experi- 
ment, 

Grace  could  not  be  ignorant  of  what  the  newspapers  had  her- 
alded, and  what  everybody  was  now  talking  about,  and  she  well 
knew  how  Mr.  Cameron  and  Julia  would  suffer  under  such  a  blow. 
"Without  a  word  or  look  that  betrayed  her  knowledge,  she  con- 
trived to  make  her  presence  and  her  company  a  comfort  rather 
than  a  restraint,  and  when  she  went  away  they  told  her  how  much 
they  should  miss  her,  and  she  believed  them.  When  Cameron 
Hall  was  gay  and  happy,  and  full  of  sunshine,  she  felt  that  her 
sad  face  and  sadder  heart  were  out  of  place  there,  but  now  they, 
too,  had  their  trouble.  Agnes's  friends  had  need  of  her,  and  she 
was  glad  to  be  able  to  do  something  for  those  who  had  done  so 
much  for  her  child.  From  henceforth  she  was  no  stranger  at 
Cameron  Hall,  and  if,  in  their  intimate  intercourse  with  her,  they 
saw  that  she  was  growing  sadder  every  day,  and  that  even  her 
quiet  smile  was  now  seldom  seen,  they  thought  that  separation 
from  Agnes  and  disappointed  hope  sufiQciently  accounted  for  the 
change. 

The  next  letter  that  came  from  Uncle  John  was  to  Eva,  and  in 
his  letters  to  her  he  always  mentioned  her  friend,  Dr.  Beaufort, 
and  generally  sent  some  message  from  him.  He  now  spoke  of 
his  disappointment  in  not  being  able  to  persuade  him  to  return 
home  with  him.  Eva  regretted  it  very  much,  but  Julia  heard  it 
with  quiet  satisfaction.  She  sincerely  hoped  never  to  see  him 
again,  for  she  felt  that  there  was  now  a  wide  interval  between 
Charles  Beaufort  and  the  sister  of  George  Cameron,  the  traitor. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 


Uncle  John  and  Charles  Beaufort  never  alluded,  in  Agnes's 
presence,  to  their  visit  to  the  surgeon.  They  hoped  that  she 
would  forget  her  disappointment,  and  soon  regain  her  accustomed 
cheerfulness ;  but  for  days  it  was  evident  that  she  thought  of  no- 
thing else,  although  she  too  was  careful  not  to  speak  of  it.     It 

13 


146  CAMERON     HALL.  ♦ 

was  several  nights  afterward,  when  they  thou^jht  she  was  asleep, 
that  their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  plaintive  voice, 
which  sang,  "I'm  blind!  oh,  I'm  blind!"  and  often  in  the  day- 
time they  heard  her  unconsciously  singing  the  air  without  tiie 
words.  She  longed  for  home,  her  mother,  and  her  organ,  and 
she  wanted  these  comforters  now  more  than  ever;  but  she  did  not 
tell  Uncle  John  so.  Her  mother  had  said  that  she  must  wait 
patiently  for  him  to  decide  upon  the  time  of  their  return,  and  she 
did  so.  He  had  no  intention  of  returning  home  at  present.  It 
was  too  early  by  two  months  to  enjoy  Switzerland,  raid  in  his 
vain  efforts  to  interest  and  amuse  Agnes  he  began  to  realize  how 
wearily  the  time  would  henceforth  drag  on  with  her.  It  was  now 
late  in  April,  the  weather  was  delicious,  and  the  garden  of  the 
Tuileries  wore  its  sweetest  spring  aspect.  Groups  of  merry 
children  sported  and  shouted  amid  its  leafy  shades,  and  as  they 
flitted  about  in  their  gay,  bright  dresses,  they  looked  like  ani- 
mated flowers.  Nurses  in  their  trim  dresses  and  snowy  muslin 
caps  mingled  in  the  throng,  chatting  gayly  in  French ;  here  and 
there  a  turbaned  zouave,  in  his  picturesque  costume,  formed  a 
striking  feature  in  the  scene ;  and  quiet  old  women,  sewing  or 
knitting  under  the  trees,  looked  up  from  their  work  with  a  dreamy 
glance  at  the  frolicsome  children  around  them,  as  if  they  wondered 
if  they  too  ever  could  have  been  so  young  and  so  happy.  But 
the  garden  with  its  pleasant  air  and  cheerful  sounds  had  lost  its 
charm  for  Agnes.  She  did  not  refuse,  when  Uncle  John  pro- 
posed to  go,  but  she  did  not  assent  with  the  cheerfulness  that  she 
used  to  do,  nor  did  she  enjoy  it  so  much  while  she  was  there. 
Neither  did  she  love  the  cascade  as  she  had  done.  Agnes  was 
home-sick  ;  she  wanted  her  mother ;  and  Uncle  John  could  see 
it,  even  if  she  did  not  say  so.  The  music  alone  retained  its  power 
to  charm,  and  this  pleasure  Uncle  John  allowed  her  to  enjoy  as 
much  as  possible. 

The  three  wore  sitting  together  one  Sunday  night  around  their 
center-table.  Uncle  John  and  Charles  talking  of  their  plans,  and 
Agnes  apparently  listening,  but  evidently  thinking  much  more  of 
a  book  that  she  had  in  her  hand  than  she  was  of  the  conversa- 
tion. She  had  traced  its  outlines  with  her  fingers,  and  made 
herself  acquainted  with  all  the  inequalities  of  its  morocco  binding, 
and  at  last  she  said : 

"Uncle  John,  what  book  is  this?  It  has  never  been  on  the 
table  before." 

"It  is  my  prayer-book,  Agnes,"  answered  Charles;  "an  Eng- 
lish prayer-book." 

"What  makes  you  call  it  an  English  prayer-book.  Dr.  Charles  ? 
Isn't  it  just  like  mother's,  in  America?" 


9  CAMERON    HALL.  147 

"Almost  like  it,  Agnes;  but  ours  has  some  slight  alterations.'' 

"Do  you  attend  the  English  chapel  here,  Charles?"  asked 
Uncle  John. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  always  go  there ;  and  before  I  used  the  English 
prayer-book,  I  imagined  that  the  alterations  in  ours  were  purely 
such  as  were  rendered  necessary  by  our  different  institutions ;  but 
I  find  that  the  language  is  sometimes  altered  unnecessarily,  and 
according  to  my  untutored  taste  not  always  for  the  better.  For 
instance,  in  the  English  prayer-book  one  of  the  evening  collects 
begins,  'Lighten  our  darkness,  0  Lord!'  Now  I  think  that,  as 
we  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  night,  whose  gathering  shadows 
are  so  fitly  emblematic  of  the  darkness  of  our  moral  nature,  there 
is  something  singularly  beautiful  and  appropriate  in  thus  begin- 
ning our  prayer  for  aid  against  its  perils ;  and  it  is  incompre- 
hensible that  in  our  version  it  should  have  been  omitted." 

Uncle  John  was  about  to  reply,  but  Agnes,  with  her  face  full 
of  interest,  repeated: 

'''Lighten  our  darkness,  0  LordP  That  prayer  suits  me, 
for  I  am  blind  I  Uncle  John,  will  you  buy  an  English  prayer- 
book  for  me  to-morrow?" 

"  What  for,  my  daughter  ?" 

"To  carry  home  to  mother.  She  will  like  it,  for  it  has  a 
prayer  in  it  for  her  blind  child." 

"Agnes,"  said  Charles,  "  wont  you  let  me  buy  it  for  you?  I 
would  like  to  do  so." 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  "I  would  be  very  much  obliged  to 
you  if  you  would." 

"Very  well,  you  shall  have  it;  a  handsome  one,  too." 

"I  don't  care  about  that,  Dr.  Charles,  for  I  cannot  see  it;  but 
I  can  feel  that  prayer." 

The  next  day  the  book  was  bought  and  given  to  Agnes.  She 
soon  learned  to  distinguish  it  from  all  others,  and  it  was  often  in 
her  hands,  and  its  beautiful  words  of  supplication  were  frequently 
on  her  lips  and  in  her  heart.  The  song  of  the  Blind  Boy  was 
now  heard  no  more,  but,  in  its  stead.  Uncle  John  and  Charles 
often  caught  the  murmured  words :  ''Lighten  our  darkness,  0 
LordP' 

Uncle  John  now  began  to  be  perplexed.  Agnes  had  not  only 
lost  her  spirits,  but  he  was  afraid  was  beginning  to  lose  her 
health  too.  It  had  been  a  favorite  part  of  his  plan  to  take  her 
to  Switzerland,  and  he  was  very  reluctant  to  give  it  up;  but  he 
now  began  seriously  to  consider  whether,  since  her  heart  was  at 
home  with  her  organ  and  her  mother,  her  health  would  not  be 
better  there  than  it  would  be  even  in  the  mountain  air  of  Switer- 
land.     He  had  thought  of  it  some  days,  and  had  determined  to* 


148  CAMEROX    HALL. 

talk  to  Charles  Beaufort  on  the  subject,  when  the  question  was 
suddenly  and  most  unexpectedly  settled. 

One  night,  late  in  April,  when  Charles  came  to  dinner,  he 
brought  a  letter  for  Agnes,  and  several  newspapers.  Uncle 
John  commenced  reading  the  letter  to  Agnes,  and  Charles  busied 
himself  with  the  papers,  when  a  sudden  exclamation  arrested 
Uncle  John  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  caused  Agnes  to  ask, 
in  alarm,  what  was  the  matter. 

It  was  the  news  of  the  fall  of  Fort  Sumter  and  the  beginning 
of  war. 

Uncle  John  laid  aside  the  letter,  and  listened  while  Charles 
read ;  and  then  said  : 

'*  That  decides  my  movements.     I  shall  go  home  now." 

"And  I  will  go  with  you,  Uncle  John.  My  duty  now  is  at 
home." 

"  Yes,  Charles,  you  are  right.  Every  Southern  man  must  now 
be  in  his  place  and  do  his  duty." 

"When  shall  you  go,  sir,  immediately  ?" 

"  In  about  three  weeks.  Meanwhile,  there  is  one  place  in 
Europe  that  I  must  visit,  if  Agnes  will  consent  to  go  with  me." 

"  What  place  is  that,  Uncle  John  ?"  asked  Charles. 

"It  is  the  town  of  Fribourg;  an  old-fashioned,  quaint-looking 
Swiss  town,  with  seemingly  nothing  to  interest  the  traveler  ex- 
cept its  antiquated  and  picturesque  appearance." 

"  What  on  earth,  sir,  do  you  want  to  go  there  for  ?  I  thought 
that  you  would  of  course  say  Rome,  Florence,  or  Xaples,  and 
then  I  would  have  envied  you  your  pleasure ;  but  your  visit  to 
Fribourg  will  not  tempt  me  to  break  the  commandment." 

"Never  mind,  Charles,  Fribourg  is  my  destination,  if  Agues 
will  go  with  me." 

"I  will  go  anywhere  with  yon,  Uncle  John,"  she  said. 

"Well,  my  daughter,  if  you  will  go  with  me  to  this  Swiss 
town,  as  soon  as  we  return  I  will  take  you  home ;  is  that  a 
bargain,  Agnes  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Uncle  John  !"  she  answered,  joyfully.  "  I  will  go 
anywhere,  and  do  anything  for  you,  if  you  will  only  take  me 
home." 

"  Is  my  little  daughter  so  very  home-sick  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  very  home-sick." 

"Why,  then,  have  you  not  told  me  so,  Agnes?" 

"Because,  Uncle  John,  you  knew  best  what  to  do,  and  I  did 
not  want  you  to  go  back  because  I  was  tired.  I  never  intended 
to  tell  you  that  I  wanted  to  go  home ;  but  I  can  tell  you  now 
how  glad  I  am  that  you  are  going." 

"Well,  my  daughter,  you  shall  go  home.     Four  weeks  from 


CAMERON    HALL.  149 

to-night  we  will  probably  be  sailing  upon  the  ocean,  going  back 
to  Hopedale,  to  see  once  more  mother,  organ,  friends." 

Her  face  was  beaming  now,  and  its  happiness  was  reproduced 
on  Uncle  John's  too  strikingly  to  be  altogether  a  reflection. 
His  own  heart,  too,  was  happy  at  the  thought  of  his  return,  and 
for  an  instant  his  face  was  bright  with  the  anticipated  pleasure ; 
but  the  next  moment,  heart  and  face  were  alike  clouded  by  the 
recollection  of  his  country  and  the  woe  overhanging  it.  The 
conversation  ceased,  and  they  were  silent.  Agnes's  reverie  was 
the  only  pleasant  one.  She  knew  nothing,  cared  nothing  for 
war,  she  only  knew  that  she  was  going  to  her  mother,  and  she 
was  contented.  Uncle  John  was  aroused  by  her  voice,  as  she 
said  : 

"  Good  night.  Uncle  John.     I  am  so  happy  !" 

"When  she  was  gone,  the  gentlemen  discussed  until  a  late  hour 
the  tidings  that  they  had  just  received,  and  afterward  the  change 
in  their  plans  consequent  thereupon. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  into  Switzerland,  Charles  ?"  asked  Uncle 
John. 

"Xo,  sir." 

"  Then  it  would  be  quite  worth  while  for  you  to  go  with  us. 
It  is  probably  the  last  opportunity  that  you  will  ever  have  of 
seeing  that  wonderful  country,  and  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I 
would  dislike  to  return  home  without  having  gone  there. 

"  I  would  be  very  glad  to  go,  sir,  if  you  can  offer  me  a  suffi- 
cient inducement;  but  to  encounter  that  keen  mountain  air  at 
this  season,  merely  for  the  sake  of  going  to  an  old-fashioned 
town,  will  not  pay  for  the  inconvenience  and  exposure.  I  can- 
not, for  my  life,  Uncle  John,  imagine  what  can  be  the  attraction 
there." 

"I  will  tell  you,  Charles,  and  would  have  told  you  before,  but 
I  don't  want  Agnes  to  know  what  she  is  going  for,  since  surprise 
will  add  to  her  pleasure.  In  that  quiet  old  town  there  is  a 
cathedral,  containing  an  organ,  which  has  but  one  superior  in 
Europe,  and  an  organist  whose  marvelous  execution  is  quite  as 
wonderful.  It  is  the  only  pleasure  that  I  know  on  the  Conti- 
nent that  can  be  enjoyed  by  the  blind  as  much  as  by  those  who 
can  see ;  and  I  am  specially  anxious  that  the  child,  who  has  been 
•disappointed  in  all  else,  should  at  least  enjoy  that.  Were  it  not 
for  this,  I  would  go  home  in  the  next  steamer.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, to  hear  organ-music  that  I  wish  you  to  go  to  Fribourg ;  it 
is  the  grand  and  wonderful  scenery  on  the  road  that  will  be  the 
attraction  to  you.  If  you  will  go  with  us,  I  will  alter  my  route. 
I  had  intended  to  go  from,here  to  Geneva  by  rail,  and  there  take 

13* 


150  CAMERON    HALL. 

a  steamer  across  the  Lake,  to  Yevay,  thus  sparing^  onrselves  all 
fatigue ;  but  if  you  go,  we  will  take  a  traveliug  carriage  at 
Geneva,  and  go  round  through  Chamouni,  giving  you  the  benefit 
of  an  excursion  to  the  mer  de  glace.  You  shall  see  Mont  Blanc, 
shall  cross  the  Alps,  and,  if  you  choose,  visit  the  Hospice  of  the 
Great  St.  Bernard,  while  we  wait  for  you  at  Martigny  or 
Yevay. " 

"  That  will,  indeed,  be  splendid,  Uncle  John  1"  he  exclaimed. 
Yes,  indeed,  I  will  go ;  but,"  he  added,  "  there  is  one  grave  ob- 
jection. This  route,  you  say,  is  fatiguing,  and  I  am  not  willing 
to  subject  you  and  Agnes  to  it  just  for  my  pleasure,  when  your 
object  could  be  so  much  more  easily  accomplished.  IIow  are  we 
to  cross  the  Alps  ?" 

"  On  mu^es  :  there  is  no  other  way." 

"  Then  I  cannot  consent  to  it.  Neither  you  nor  Agnes  could 
bear  that." 

"  You  are  greatly  mistaken.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  muscle 
and  sinew  yet  left  in  these  old  limbs  of  mine,  and  they  can  bear 
much  fatigue  if  there  is  any  occasion  for  it;  and  as  to  Agnes,  I 
am  so  well  acquainted  with  the  Swiss  modes  of  traveling,  that  I 
can  make  her  perfectly  comfortable.  So,  now,  just  say  that  you 
will  go,  and  the  question  of  route  is  not  only  settled,  but  it  is 
settled  much  more  to  my  satisfaction  than  it  was  before,  when  I 
had  determined  to  go  without  the  fatigue  and  without  your  com- 
pany. I  only  wish,  for  your  sake,  that  it  was  July  instead  of 
May.  We  may  have  a  bright  sun,  which  is,  after  all,  the  only 
thing  necessary  as  far  as  the  scenery  is  concerned,  but  it  will  be 
very  cold." 

"I  shall  not  regard  that  for  myself,  sir,  though  I  shall  regret 
it  on  account  of  you  and  Agnes.  I  should  be  no  man,  and  cer- 
tainly not  a  young  one,  if  the  excitement  and  exercise  and  adven- 
ture of  such  a  journey  could  not  keep  me  warm.  No,  sir,  the 
cold  will,  in  no  degree,  abate  my  enjoyment;  if  the  sun  will  only 
shine,  I  ask  no  more." 

"  I  am  sure  that  you  will  enjoy  it,  Charles,  and  so  will  I, 
although  you  will  have  the  advantage  over  me  in  one  respect ; 
novelty  will  add  a  keener  relish  to  your  enjoyment.  I  am  per- 
fectly familiar  with  all  that  scenery,  and  perhaps  my  greatest 
pleasure  will  be  in  the  recollections  that  it  will  awaken.  Many, 
many  years  ago,  when  your  father  and  I  were  young,  and  had 
not  seen  each  other  since  we  parted  at  college,  we  unexpectedly 
met  at  Chamouni,  and  the  very  pleasantest  recollections  that  I 
have  of  European  travel  are  those  of  our  excursions  in  that 
neighborhood.  It  will  be  no  small  enjoyment  to  recall  those 
scenes  and  adventures  of  my  youth,  in  the  company  of  his  son.   I 


CAMERON    HALL.  151 

wish,  for  your  sake,  that  we  had  more  time ;  a  whole  summer 
there  would  scarcely  satisfy  you." 

"  Yes,  Uncle  John,  I  should  like  nothing  better  than  to  spend 
the  entire  summer  among  those  wild  mountain  passes ;  but  a 
glimpse  and  a  taste  are  better  than  nothing ;  and  since  I  am 
obliged  to  go  home  at  once,  and  will  probably  never  be  in  Europe 
again,  I  will  most  thankfully  enjoy  this  little  excursion  without 
complaining  that  it  cannot  be  longer  or  more  satisfying.  When 
shall  we  go  ?" 

"  The  sooner  the  better,  Charles.  Day  after  to-morrow,  if 
you  can  make  your  arrangements.  I  think  that  we  ought,  by 
all  means,  to  go  home  the  last  of  this  month ;  and  if  we  go  off 
immediately,  we  can  allow  ourselves  three  weeks  for  our  ex- 
cursion." 

"I  will  be  ready,  sir,  by  day  after  to-morrow." 

At  the  appointed  time  they  left  Paris,  Agnes  acquiescing  in 
their  movements  with  quiet  indifference.  The  only  question  that 
she  asked  about  their  journey  was,  how  long  they  would  be  gone. 
Her  hopes  and  anticipations  were  centered  upon  the  departure 
for  home,  and  she  cared  very  little  where  she  spent  the  interval. 
Uncle  John  had  not  told  her  why  she  was  going  to  Fribourg, 
and  she  thought  that  she  was  only  going  to  gratify  him. 

Two  days  were  all  that  they  could  spare  at  Geneva,  and  on 
the  morning  of  the  third  they  left  for  Chamouni,  in  their  traveling 
carriage.  It  was  a  magnificent  day  in  May;  the  air  was  cold, 
but  pure  and  bracing,  and  the  sky  was  cloudless;  it  was  just  such 
a  day  as  in  the  sunny  South  the  month  of  October  brings  us. 
The  country  was  beautiful,  even  though  not  yet  clothed  in  its 
summer  verdure.  The  vine-clad  hills  of  Savoy  wanted  the  rich 
drapery  of  foliage  and  the  purple  clusters  which,  later  in  the 
season,  would  adorn  their  rugged  sides  up  to  the  very  rock- 
crowned  summits;  but  to  the  eye  unused  to  the  sight,  there  was 
something  of  interest,  if  not  of  beauty,  in  the  gnarled  and  twisted 
vines  which  struggled  and  clambered  up  the  rocky  steeps,  and 
awakened  a  feeling  of  commiseration  for  the  arduous  and  dan- 
gerous toil  that  was  necessary  to  their  cultivation.  The  scene 
was  one  of  varying  interest,  and  Charles  Beaufort's  enjoyment 
fully  realized  both  his  own  and  Uncle  John's  expectations.  He 
rode  with  the  driver,  and  was  constantly  calling  attention  either 
to  the  smiling  landscape,  or  to  the  peasantry  in  their  parti-colored 
costume  and  large  straw  flats,  their  gay  bright  clothing  giving  to 
the  whole  scene  the  appearance  of  a  picture.  Later  in  the  day 
the  scenery  grew  wilder :  the  mountains  were  taller  and  stood  in 
closer  proximity;  the  road  ran  sometimes  on  a  narrow  ledge, 
with  a  frowning  precipice  of  rock  on  one  side  and  the  river  on 


152  CAMERON     HALL. 

the  other,  and  then,  after  awhile,  turning  away  from  the  stream, 
it  pursued  its  course  through  a  little  valley,  whose  guardian 
mountains  were  so  near  that  it  seemed  as  if  a  stone  could  be 
thrown  from  one  summit  to  the  other.  The  mountain  sides 
were  dotted  up  to  the  very  top  with  little  spots  which  the  travel- 
ers could  see  were  accustomed  to  cultivation,  while  here  and 
there  on  the  steep  slope  was  perched  a  cottage,  which  seemed  in- 
accessible to  anything  except  the  sure-footed  and  fearless  chamois. 
Now  and  then,  a  cascade  made  a  graceful  leap  down  some  tall 
rocky  cliff,  and  before  it  reached  the  deep  abyss  below  was  dis- 
solved into  a  soft  wreath  of  mist;  on  every  bold  mountain  top 
around,  the  pure  snow  rested  like  a  crown  of  pearl;  and  at  last  a 
sudden  turn  of  the  road  revealed  a  majestic  mountain  with  its 
snow-covered  sides  and  its  tall  summit  enveloped  in  clouds. 
The  driver  drew  up  his  horses,  and,  pointing  with  his  whip, 
said,  with  something  almost  of  reverence  in  his  tone  :  ^  Mont 
Blanc  !" 

It  was  almost  sunset  when  the  travelers  reached  the  little  vil- 
lage of  St.  Martin's,  where  they  were  to  spend  the  night.  As 
soon  as  they  got  out  of  the  carriage,  Uncle  John  said  ; 

"  We  have  no  time  to  go  into  the  hotel,  Charles.  We  must 
hasten  to  the  bridge,  and  if  we  are  fortunate,  we  shall  have  a 
sunset  view  of  Mont  Blanc,  exceeding  in  magnificence  anything 
that  you  have  ever  seen." 

They  walked  down  to  a  bridge,  spanning  the  turbulent  Arve, 
and  there,  at  a  distance  of  twelve  miles,  they  stood  looking  at  the 
monarch  of  mountains.  The  summit  was  still  covered  with 
clouds,  so  that  not  even  the  outline  was  visible ;  but  the  pure  soft 
light  of  the  declining  sun  rested  upon  its  snow-covered  sides,  in- 
vesting it  with  a  beauty  that  is  absolutely  indescribable.  The 
travelers  gazed  in  silent  wonder :  the  old  man,  to  whom  it  was 
perfectly  familiar,  realized  that  there  are  some  scenes  in  nature 
so  far  overreaching  the  grasp  of  memory,  that  they  can  never  be 
recalled,  and  every  time  they  are  looked  upon,  it  is  with  new 
admiration  and  wonder ;  the  young  traveler  was  overpowered 
with  the  mingled  sublimity  and  beauty  so  far  exceeding  his 
powers  of  conception  ;  and  the  blind  child,  utterly  unconscious 
of  the  vision  of  glory  before  her,  clung  to  Uncle  John's  hand, 
and  wondered  if  the  sight  was  so  beautiful  that  they  should 
enjoy  it  so  quietly. 

Mont  Blanc  towered  before  them :  not  the  cold,  bald,  bleak 
mountain  that  Charles's  imagination  had  pictured  it ;  pure  but 
icy,  grand  but  passionless,  beautiful  but  dead.  No  ;  there  was  a 
softness,  a  warmth,  a  living  beauty,  imparted  to  it  which,  while 
it  did   not  diminish   its  grandeur,  so  mellowed   and  subdued 


CAMERON    HALL.  153 

it,  that  the  heart  borrowed  warmth  from  the  mountain  of  eternal 
snows.  Language  cannot  picture  the  peculiar  beauty  of  the  tint 
with  which  the  sunlight  clothes  Mont  Blanc.  It  is  not  the  cold, 
dead  white  of  the  snow  as  we  see  it;  there  is  a  luminousness 
about  it  which  perhaps, more  nearly  than  any  other  earthly  object, 
resembles  "the  sea  of  glass  mingled  with  fire,"  in  the  Apoca- 
lypse. 

The  travelers  waited  for  the  clouds  to  leave  the  summit  of  the 
mountain,  and  they  were  not  disappointed.  Gradually  they  were 
lifted  up  and  dispelled,  and  at  last,  clearly  defined  against  the 
back-ground  of  the  sky,  the  peak  of  Mont  Blanc  stood  revealed, 
climbing  far  up  toward  the  zenith.  How  suggestive  of  strength 
is  the  quiet  repose  of  the  grand,  silent  mountain  !  What  a  thought 
does  it  awaken  of  the  power  of  Him  who  "weighs  the  mountains 
in  a  balance !" 

The  silence  continued  unbroken,  for  language  was  not  needed 
there.     At  last  Agnes  asked: 

"Are  you  disappointed,  Dr.  Charles?" 

"Disappointed  at  what,  Agnes?" 

"At  the  appearance  of  the  mountain." 

"Oh  no,  child  I  that  is  impossible  I" 

"  Then  why  don't  you  talk  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  now,  Agnes.  I  only  want  to  see  ;  eves 
are  all  that  anybody  wants  here  !" 

How  gladly  would  he  have  recalled  the  thoughtless  words,  as 
he  saw  the  cloud  gather  upon  the  little  blind  face,  and  heard  the 
mournful  but  vain  wish : 

"How  I  wish  that  I  could  see !" 

The  words  went  to  Uncle  John's  heart,  and  he  forgot  the  ma- 
jestic glory  of  the  scene  before  him,  in  his  compassion  for  the 
sealed  eyes  and  the  soul  that  were  shut  out  from  it.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  ever  heard  Agnes  wish  for  sight, 
and  he  thought,  sadly: 

"Yes,  here,  indeed,  you  are  blind,  more  blind  than  anywhere 
else  on  earth.  Here,  with  the  mountain  of  light  full  in  view, 
your  darkness  seems  doubly  dark." 

The  sun  had  now  gone  down,  the  air  was  keenly  cold,  and 
Agnes  was  tired,  so  she  and  Uncle  John  returned  to  the  house, 
leaving  Charles  still  standing  on  the  bridge,  with  his  eyes  riveted 
upon  the  mountain,  now  growing  dim  and  gray  in  the  twilight. 
There  was  a  comfortable  fire  in  the  hotel,  and  Uncle  John  drew 
Agnes  close  up  to  it,  and,  seating  himself  beside  her,  tried  to  tell 
her  about  Mont  Blanc.  She  was  interested,  but  he  found  that 
words  could  not  picture  such  a  scene,  and  though  he  did  not  say 
so,  still  his  heart  echoed  painfully  the  childish  wish — that  she 
could  see. 


154  CAMERON    HALL. 

Early  the  next  morning,  the  travelers  exchanged  their  heavy 
carriage  for  a  light  barouche  and  strong  mountain  horses,  and 
left  St.  Martin's  for  Chamouni,  twelve  miles  distant.  The  road 
was  a  splendid  one,  but  in  many  places  so  precipitous  that  they 
progressed  very  slowly.  The  scenery  throughout  the  whole  dis- 
tance was  wildly  romantic.  Tall,  wild  mountains  stood  all  around, 
and  the  road  wound  up  and  around  them,  revealing,  every  now 
and  then,  through  a  break  in  the  chain,  the  pure  white  summit  of 
Mont  Blanc.  The  nearer  they  approached  it,  the  better  they 
could  estimate  its  height  and  grandeur;  but  they  missed  the  sun- 
set glow  of  the  evening  before,  and  had  no  view  all  that  day  that 
was  comparable  to  the  one  from  the  bridge  of  St.  Martin's. 

The  travelers  did  not  find  the  lonely  and  solemn  road  that  they 
might  have  expected  through  such  a  region.  Every  little  while 
the  ear  was  arrested  by  the  merry  jingle  of  the  little  bells  with 
which  the  horses  are  always  decked  for  these  Alpine  excursions, 
and  a  carriage  came  in  sight,  filled  with  gay  and  happy  pleasure- 
seekers.  Every  few  miles,  a  large  wooden  cross,  with  no  inscrip- 
tion except  the  date,  stood  like  a  solemn  sentinel  beside  the  road, 
and  if  there  was  something  funereal  in  its  blackness,  it  at  least 
assured  the  travelers  that  they  were  not  on  a  lonely  and  unknown 
road. 

During  that  day's  journey,  Dr.  Beaufort's  attention  was  some- 
times recalled  from  the  majestic  grandeur  of  the  scenery  by  ob- 
jects to  which  his  professional  eye  was  attracted  by  a  strange  sort 
of  fascination.  They  were  now  in  the  goitre  region.  Uncle 
John  could  not  look  at  the  wretched  deformity.  His  heart  sick- 
ened at  the  sight  of  the  revolting,  idiotic  stare  with  which  he  was 
regarded,  and  he  turned  away  in  disgust  from  those  huge,  fleshy 
excrescences,  sometimes  divided  into  distinct  compartments,  which 
hung  like  a  bag  from  the  neck  down  upon  the  chest ;  but  the 
physician  looked  with  curious  interest  upon  the  deformity  of 
which  his  books  had  told  him,  but  which  he  now  saw  for  the  first 
time  in  all  its  hideousness. 

Strange,  indeed,  is  it,  that  such  nature  should  be  mingled  with 
such  humanity.  Here,  in  the  laud  where  nature  has  blended  with 
marvelous  prodigality  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful,  the  grand 
and  the  picturesque,  strange,  indeed,  does  it  seem  that  she  has 
no  child  to  appreciate  and  admire  her  wonders  !  Instead  of  the 
poetic  fancy,  the  exuberant  imagination,  the  strong  intellect  that 
we  would  expect  to  be  cradled  amid  such  scenes,  we  find  the  hid- 
eous deformity  of  Cretin  idiocy  !  The  stranger  and  the  foreigner 
come  to  gaze  and  wonder,  and  foreign  tongues  exhaust  their 
wealth  of  epithets  in  striving  to  describe  the  scenery  of  this  en- 
chanting country,  while  Switzerland's  own  children  look  with 


CAMEEON    HALL.  155 

unmeaning  stare  upon  the  majestic  grandeur  of  their  native 
land  1 

When  the  travelers  arrived  at  Chamouni,  they  settled  them- 
selves quietly  for  several  days'  sojourn,  for  Uncle  John  was  de- 
termined that  Charles  should  have  time  enough  to  make  the  dif- 
ferent excursions  of  which  this  little  town  is  the  radiating  point. 
He  himself  intended  to  stay  with  Agnes,  only  going  where  she 
was  able  to  accompany  him. 

The  morning  after  their  arrival,  when  they  met  at  the  break- 
fast-table, Charles  announced  himself  ready  for  the  mer  de  glace. 
He  had  procured  his  guide,  and  provided  himself  with  an  Alpine 
staff,  and  declared  that  he  was  now  equal  to  any  danger  or  fa- 
tigue. 

"You  will  be  tired  enough,  Charles,  before  you  get  back. 
Suppose  that  I  send  a  mule  to  meet  you  this  afternoon." 

"  No,  indeed,  sir !  An  Alpine  traveler  can  certainly  walk  a 
few  miles." 

"And  yet,"  replied  Uncle  John,  smiling,  "the  American  Alpine 
traveler  might  be  glad  enough  to  get  upon  a  mule  before  he  re- 
turns from  the  mer  de  glace.  If  you  take  my  advice,  you  will  let 
me  send  one  to  meet  you,  this  afternoon,  at  the  Chajjeau.^^ 

"No,  sir;  it  is  not  necessary.  I  am  sure  that  it  cannot  be  a 
very  fatiguing  expedition,  for  when  the  guide  asked  the  two  En- 
glishmen who  are  going  along  if  they  would  ride  or  walk,  they 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  riding." 

"I  suppose  so  ;  but  you  must  not  measure  your  endurance  by 
theirs.  You  know  that  they  are  great  pedestrians,  and  in  Swit- 
zerland you  will  see  as  many  Englishmen,  and  women,  too,  walk- 
ing, as  you  see  riding." 

Charles,  however,  insisted  that  he  preferred  to  walk,  and  Uncle 
John  watched  the  party  with  a  quiet  smile,  as  he  saw  them  leave 
the  hotel,  so  full  of  expectation  and  adventure.  He  knew  what 
was  before  them,  and  was  satisfied  that  if  his  English  companions 
should  return  unfatigued,  Charles,  at  least,  would  be  tired  enough. 

It  was  a  splendid  day,  cold,  and  perfectly  clear.  They  found 
Montauvert  very  steep,  but  their  slow  ascent  was  not  toilsome,  as 
it  was  relieved  by  frequent  pauses  to  look  at  the  view  spread  out 
beneath  their  feet.  They  rested  for  half  an  hour  at  the  house  on 
the  summit,  where  they  provided  themselves  with  woolen  socks 
over  their  boots,  to  enable  them  to  walk  securely  over  the  ice,  and 
then  commenced  the  descent  to  the  7ner  de  glace.  This  was 
speedily  accomplished,  for  it  was  short  and  precipitous,  and  a  few 
slides  and  jumps  brought  them  down  upon  the  ice.  It  is  not 
wide  at  this  point,  and  up  and  down,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
it  rests  only  upon  what  seems,  indeed,  a  sea  of  ice.     In  it  are 


156  CAMERON    HALL. 

crevices  and  fissures  hundreds  of  feet  deep,  and  upon  the  brink 
of  the  first  one  of  these  the  party  stopped  and  looked  far  down 
into  the  narrow  abyss,  whose  walls  of  ice  were  more  exquisitely 
blue  than  the  clearest  October  sky.  As  they  listened  to  the  tor- 
rent that  roared  and  thundered  beneath  their  feet,  they  felt  a  mo- 
mentary insecurity,  when  they  remembered  that  the  frail  and 
treacherous  ice  formed  the  only  barrier  to  this  rushing  stream  ; 
but  strong,  and  seemingly  as  unyielding  as  the  granite,  was  the 
channel  through  which  the  waters  poured,  and  upon  whose  icy 
sides  they  made  no  more  impression  than  if  they  had  been  of 
solid  rock.  Without  tliought  of  risk  or  danger,  they  crossed  the 
sea^^of  ice.  Oa  the  other  side,  the  walk  was  rough,  but  not  other- 
wise uncomfortaV)le.  Later  in  the  season,  a  thousand  little 
streams  are  released  by  the  summer  sun  from  their  glacier  prisons 
in  the  Alps,  and  flowing  down  the  mountain  side,  intersect  the 
path  at  short  intervals,  without  either  bridge  or  stepping-stones, 
and  the  traveler  must  walk  bravely  through  them ;  but,  as  yet, 
they  were  still  locked  in  their  wintry  sleep,  far  away  in  the 
mountains,  and  the  pedestrians  pursued  their  way  over  the  dry 
and  rocky  ground,  looking  at  and  talking  of  the  wonders  that 
were  around  them. 

After  awhile,  the  path  grew  narrower,  and  they  walked  along 
singly,  and,  presently,  Charles,  who  was  behind,  heard  the  guide 
call  out : 

^'Prenez  garde  !'''' 

They  had  reached  the  mauvais  pas,  a  narrow  ledge  upon  the 
side  of  a  sheer  precipice,  overhanging  an  abyss  seemingly  with- 
out a  bottom.  The  path  was  just  wide  enough  to  plant  the  foot 
securely  on;  sometimes  straight,  sometimes  winding  round  the 
corner  of  a  rock,  and  sometimes  descending  by  little  steps  cut  in 
the  side  of  the  perpendicular  stone.  It  is  just  here  that  the 
traveler  enjoys  the  finest  view  of  this  wonderful  scene ;  and  al- 
though a  false  step,  or  a  dizzy  brain,  would  have  plunged  him  into 
a  depth  that  seemed  fathomless,  yet  Charles  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  look  around  him.  The  ice  was  thrown  together 
in  huge,  irregular  masses,  such  as  the  imagination  pictures  the 
hummocks  of  the  polar  seas;  as  if  the  waves,  while  roaring,  and 
tossing  wildly  to  and  fro,  had  suddenly  been  arrested  and  con- 
gealed, and  left  forevermore  motionless  and  voiceless.  It  was  a 
silent  sea;  no  breeze  awakened  a  low,  murmuring  response  from 
its  billows ;  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  awful  stillness  was  the 
occasional  crash  with  which  a  dismembered  fragment  left  the 
mighty  mass,  and  the  sullen,  distant  plunge  with  which  it  seemed 
to  fall  into  the  very  depths  of  the  earth. 

Along  this  precarious  pathway  they  walked  about  three  hun- 


CAMERON    HALL.  157 

dred  yards,  their  only  support  being  a  frail  rope,  secured  by  iron 
stanchions  in  the  rock.  Our  travelers  were  not  averse  to  a  suffi- 
cient amount  of  danger  to  give  zest  to  their  excursion,  neither 
did  they  fear  their  strength  of  head  and  nerve,  yet  it  was  with  a 
feeling  of  relief  that  each  one  planted  his  foot  once  more  upon 
terra  firma. 

When  they  were  fairly  over,  one  of  the  Englishmen  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  said,  grurablingly: 

"  'Mauvais  Pas,^  indeed  !  Just  like  a  delicate,  mincing  French- 
man, to  call  a  four-inch  path  along  a  sheer  precipice,  hundreds 
of  feet  high,  a  bad  step/  If  an  Englishman  had  had  the 
naming  of  that  place,  he  would  have  called  it  in  plain,  down- 
right terms,  'the  dangerous  path,'  or  'the  ledge  of  the  precipice,' 
or  something  else  that  would  have  given  the  traveler  an  idea  of 
what  he  would  have  to  encounter ;  the  Frenchman  tells  him  in 
delicate  terms  of  the  uncomfortable,  the  bad  step,  and  lo  !  when 
he  comes  to  it,  he  finds  a  place  where  any  step,  for  three  hundred 
yards,  may  easily  be  a  fatal  instead  of  a  bad  one  1" 

They  were  still  a  long  distance  from  the  Chapeau,  and  when 
they  at  last  reached  the  house,  they  were  not  unwilling  to  par- 
take of  its  refreshment  and  rest.  They  stopped  here  an  hour, 
and  not  long  after  they  began  the  descent  of  the  mountain ; 
Charles  regretted  that  he  had  not  permitted  Uncle  John  to  send 
a  mule  to  meet  him  here  as  he  had  proposed.  The  rest  had  com- 
pletely refreshed  his  companions,  but  he  was  very  much  fatigued, 
and  found  it  difficult  to  keep  pace  with  their  rapid  step.  Long 
before  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  as  Uncle  John  had 
prophesied,  he  was  too  tired  to  enjoy  the  ever- varying  prospect 
which  the  winding  road  unfolded.  Night  had  closed  in  when  they 
arrived  at  Chamouni,  and,  thoroughly  wearied,  Charles  went  to 
bed  without  stopping  to  give  Uncle  John  the  particulars  of  his 
excursion. 

The  two  following  days  he  undertook  the  other  more  difficult 
and  dangerous  expeditions  in  the  neighborhood.  Meanwhile, 
Uncle  John  and  Agnes  took  short  walks  about  the  village,  talk- 
ing of  the  objects  around  them,  but  most  generally  calling  up 
a  smile  by  a  word  about  home,  or  an  allusion  to  their  departure 
from  Europe.  Swiss  air  and  Swiss  travel,  even  at  this  early  sea- 
son, seemed  to  have  realized  Uncle  John's  hopes.  The  roses 
were  beginning  to  show  themselves  upon  Agnes's  pale  cheeks,  her 
step  was  more  elastic,  and,  since  the  promise  of  a  return  home,  her 
spirits  had  rebounded,  and  she  was  always  cheerful,  and  sometimes 
even  gay.  All  this  Uncle  John  noted  with  pleasure ;  and  since  the 
special  object  of  his  mission  had  failed,  he  was  now  contented 

14 


158  CAMERON    HALL. 

with  the  small  compensation  of  restoring  her  to  her  mother, 
strong  and  robust. 

They  had  been  in  Chamouni  three  days,  when  Uncle  John 
said  to  Charles: 

"  There  is  but  one  more  excursion  for  you  to  make  from  here, 
unless  you  intend  to  ascend  Mont  Blanc." 

"No,  sir,  I  have  no  desire  to  do  that  at  any  season,  but  especi- 
ally at  this  time  of  the  year.  I  like  adventure  well  enough,  when 
there  is  anything  to  be  gained  by  it;  but  the  ascent  of  Mont 
Blanc,  I  am  sure,  would  not  repay  me  for  the  suffering  and  danger. 
I  would  much  rathcFv,  look  upon  the  grand  old  mountain  from 
below,  than  to  climb  it,  and  look  upon  a  view  which,  if  not  ob- 
scured by  clouds,  must  be  indistinct  from  distance." 

"  Then  to-morrow  is  the  last  day  that  we  need  stay  here. 
While  you  are  gone  to  the  Flegere,  I  will  make  the  arrange- 
ments for  our  departure.  There  are  two  mountain  passes  by 
which  we  can  reach  Martigny,  and  I  leave  you  to  choose  be- 
tween them." 

"A  privilege  of  which  I  shall  not  avail  myself,  sir,  since  you 
are  much  more  competent  than  I  am  to  decide.  I  shall  find 
enou<2:h  to  enjoy  on  either  route." 

"  Then  if  I  am  to  choose,  I  will  say  the  Tete  Noire ;  and  if  the 
weather  is  good,  we  will  leave  here  day  after  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Very  well,  sir,  I  will  be  ready.  You  will  not  go,  I  suppose, 
unless  it  is  a  clear  day." 

"  By  no  means.  There  is  no  more  forlorn  and  dreary  discom- 
fort imaginable,  than  a  rainy  day  in  the  Alps.  Besides,  Agnes 
could  not  bear  such  exposure.  No,  if  it  is  at  all  threatening  we 
must  wait. 

The  morning  of  the  departure  was  clear  and  bright,  and 
Uncle  John  left  Agnes  hovering  over  the  fire,  while  he  went  to 
superintend  the  arrangements.  At  ten  o'clock  they  were  ready 
to  go.  Uncle  John,  Charles,  and  the  guide  were  each  mounted 
on  a  mule,  and  Agnes,  carefully  wrapped  in  her  traveling  shawl 
and  a  blanket,  was  carried  by  the  guide.  She  did  not  object  by 
words  to  this  arrangement,  but  it  was  very  evident  that  she  did 
not  like  it ;  she  acquiesced,  however,  when  Uncle  John  told  her 
that  she  was  much  safer  with  the  guide  than  she  would  be  with 
him.  There  was  of  course,  little  pleasure  for  her  that  day,  al- 
though Uncle  John  rode  as  near  to  her  as  possible,  and  when- 
ever it  was  practicable  talked  to  her.  Four  hours'  riding  brought 
them  to  the  summit  of  the  pass,  and  they  stopped  at  the  little 
hotel  for  dinner  and  rest.  Here  Uncle  John  had  determined  to 
spend  the  night,  if  Agnes  should  be  tired;  but  her  ride,  though 
a  lonely  one,  was  not  fatiguing,  for  her  guide,  interested  in 


CAMERON    HALL.  159 

the  blind  child,  whose  weariness  he  could  not  even  relieve  by 
conversation,  had  done  all  that  he  could  to  make  her  comfortable. 

After  an  hour's  rest  they  mounted  their  mules  again,  and  soon 
found  themselves  following  a  narrow  path,  which  only  admitted 
one  horseman  at  a  time  ;  and  they  were  in  the  midst  of  mountain 
scenery  which,  for  grandeur  and  sublimity,  is  perhaps  not  ex- 
celled in  the  world.  Far  in  the  depths  below,  a  roaring  torrent 
boiled  and  raged ;  the  precipice  of  rock  frowned  above,  while  in 
every  direction  huge  rocks  were  thrown  about  and  heaped  up  in 
the  wildest  chaos,  and  covered  with  moss  and  vegetation,  as  if  the 
mighty  convulsion  which  had  rent  them  asunder  had  occurred 
centuries  ago.  The  whole  aspect  of  nature  was  that  of  silent, 
solemn  grandeur.  The  noise  of  the  torrent,  that  chafed  and 
thundered  below,  was  so  subdued  and  mellowed  by  distance  that 
it  rather  deepened  than  disturbed  the  oppressive  silence.  Some- 
times the  path  wound  along  the  ledge  of  a  precipice,  from  whose 
abyss  below  it  was  protected  only  by  a  frail  railing  that  quaked 
in  the  mountain  breeze,  while  on  the  other  side,  seemingly  withia 
a  stone's  throw,  rose  just  such  a  mountain  as  the  one  that  the 
travelers  were  ascending. 

Later  in  the  day,  as  they  emerged  from  these  somber  forests, 
the  scenery  again  assumed  the  features  of  the  picturesque,  and 
bounding  cascades,  sparkling  glaciers,  chalets,  and  the  chamois 
moving  fearlessly  along  the  edge  of  the  precipices,  gave  life  and 
animation  to  the  scene.  About  sunset  the  party  reached  Martigny. 
Agnes  was  very  glad  to  be  told  that  she  was  at  the  end  of  her 
journey,  and  when  she  parted  from  her  guide  she  thanked  him 
kindly,  through  Uncle  John,  who  acted  as  interpreter,  for  his 
gentle  care,  while  Uncle  John,  by  some  extra  francs,  gave  him  a 
substantial  proof  of  his  own  appreciation  of  his  kindness. 

The  next  morning,  Charles  went  to  visit  the  hospice  of  the 
Great  St.  Bernard,  where  he  would  spend  the  night,  and  rejoin 
his  companions  at  Yevay,  whither  they  were  to  go  during  the 
day. 

There  was  nothing  at  this  beautiful  Swiss  town  that  Agnes 
could  enjoy.  The  lovely  blue  waters  of  Lake  Geneva ;  pictur- 
esque cottages  along  the  road  between  the  town  and  the  Castle  of 
Cbillon,  a  few  miles  distant ;  the  gloomy  castle  itself,  with  that 
dark  prison-vault,  linked  by  the  poet's  genius  to  immortal  verse; 
the  magnificent  dahlias  of  such  luxuriant  growth  and  richness  of 
coloring, — all  these  combine  to  make  Yevay  a  most  interesting 
and  attractive  spot  to  the  ordinary  traveler,  but  it  could  have  no 
charms  for  a  blind  child.  After  dinner,  she  and  Uncle  John 
went  out  into  the  yard,  and  sat  down  upon  a  rustic  seat  under  a 
tree.    The  fresh  breeze  and  warm  sunshine  were  pleasantly  com- 


160  CAMERON    HALL. 

mingled,  and  she  enjoyed  thera  as  they  talked  together,  while  his 
eyes  rested  upon  a  picture  of  surpassing  loveliness.  The  lake 
slept  in  quiet  beauty,  and,  on  the  opposite  side,  mountain  rose 
upon  mountain  in  the  distance,  some  covered  with  snow,  and 
some  glowing  in  the  mellow  sunlight,  while  over  tlie  whole  land- 
scape there  rested  a  soft  purple  haze,  which  subdued  each  rugged 
outline  without  obscuring  a  single  feature  of  the  scene.  In  all 
his  wanderings,  Uncle  John  had  never  looked  upon  a  lovelier 
picture,  and  he  fell  into  a  quiet  contemplation  of  it,  from  which 
he  was  aroused  by  the  question : 

**  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Uncle  John  ?'" 

He  would  not  tell  her  that  he  was  enjoying  a  pleasure  which 
she  could  not  understand  ;  and  so,  instead  of  answering  her  ques- 
tion, he  asked  another : 

"Agnes,  the  lake  is  very  smooth  ;  how  would  you  like  a  sail 
upon  it  ?" 

"Very  much,  indeed.  Uncle  John." 

"  Then  come,  and  we  will  go  at  once." 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  lake?" 

"  We  are  on  the  shore  of  the  lake  now.  A  flight  of  stone 
steps  leads  from  this  yard,  where  we  are  sitting,  into  the  water. 
At  the  foot  of  these  steps  nicely  cushioned  boats  are  moored, 
whose  scarlet  flags  with  white  crosses  in  the  center  are  waving 
at  the  stern.     We  will  get  into  one  and  have  a  pleasant  sail." 

They  rowed  over  the  water  until  sunset,  Agnes  enjoying  the 
fresh  air,  and  the  pleasure  of  leaning  over  the  side  of  the' boat 
and  dipping  her  hand  in  the  cold  waters.  When  they  returned 
to  the  hotel  they  learned  that  Dr.  Beaufort  had  arrived  some  time 
before,  and  had  gone  to  visit  the  Castle  of  Chillon.  He  did  not 
get  back  until  after  nightfall,  and  was  full  of  the  enjoyment  of  his 
excursion  to  St.  Bernard,  and  Agnes  fell  asleep  upon  the  sofa 
while  he  was  talking  enthusiastically  of  pleasures  which  were  to 
her  vague  and  dark  unrealities. 

The  next  morning,  they  left  Yevay  in  a  traveling  carriage, 
drawn  by  four  stout  horses,  whose  little  bells  jingled  merrily  as 
they  climbed  the  mountain.  ^Notwithstanding  the  bracing  air 
and  the  exhilaration  of  their  mode  of  traveling,  Agnes  was  to- 
day weak  and  languid.  She  insisted  that  she  was  not  sick,  that 
she  was  only  tired  ;  but  Uncle  John  was  afraid  that,  in  spite  of 
all  his  efforts  to  render  the  journey  easy  for  her,  her  strength  had 
been  too  severely  taxed.  They  reached  Fribourg  early  in  the 
afternoon,  and  Uncle  John  was  rejoiced  that  they  had  at  last  ar- 
rived at  their  destination,  and  he  determined  to  remain  there 
until  Agnes  should  be  thoroughly  rested.  He  felt  no  anxiety 
now  about  her  being  interested  and  entertained ;  no  fear  lest  the 


CAMERON    HALL.  161 

time  might  hang  heavily,  or  the  days  pass  wearily  by;  he  knew 
that  there  was  for  her  there  an  unfailing  source  of  happiness,  and 
that  his  only  difficulty  now  would  be  to  persuade  her  to  leave 
when  it  should  be  necessary  to  do  so. 

As  they  drove  rapidly  through  the  streets,  Charles  saw  enough 
to  excite  his  curiosity  and  make  him  anxious  to  study  in  detail 
the  features  of  this  singular  looking  place.  Its  situation  is  most 
romantic,  the  town  being  divided  by  immense  ravines,  spanned 
by  bridges,  two  of  which  are  suspension  bridges,  the  only  link  to 
bind  this  quaint  old  town  to  the  present.  Everything  else  seems 
to  belong  to  the  far-distant  past,  and  is  black  with  the  smoke  and 
dust  and  mould  of  age.  Upon  one  of  these  bridges,  Charles 
stood  and  looked  with  wonder  into  the  ravine  below,  where  men 
looked  almost  as  small  as  children.  The  bridge  is  said  to  be  as 
high  above  the  street  underneath  it  as  the  precipice  of  Niagara, 
and  it  certainly  seemed  to  our  traveler  to  be  a  dizzy  height.  He 
was  so  absorbed  that  the  gathering  clouds  failed  to  attract  his 
attention,  when  all  at  once  he  was  aroused  by  the  large  heavy 
drops  of  rain.  The  storm  came  as  suddenly  and  violently  as  only 
it  can  come  in  mountain  countries,  and  by  the  time  he  reached 
the  hotel  it  was  pouring  in  torrents,  with  severe  thunder  and 
lightning. 

He  found  Agnes  asleep  upon  the  sofa,  and  Uncle  John  watch- 
ing her  anxiously. 

**  I  am  uneasy  about  her,  Charles,"  he  said. 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  anxiety.  Uncle  John;  it  is  only 
fatigue." 

"  She  was  so  bright  and  well  at  Chamouni.  I  thought  that 
the  Swiss  air  was  going  to  work  wonders  for  her;  but  to-day 
she  has  been  more  languid  than  I  have  seen  her  since  she  left 
home." 

"  That  is  nothing.  Uncle  John.  The  child  is  tired,  and  a  few 
days'  rest  will  make  her  as  strong  as  ever." 

"Everything  is  adverse  to  my  plans  to-night,  Charles,"  said 
Uncle  John,  going  to  the  window  and  looking  out  at  the  pouring 
rain  and  the  flooded  streets.  '*  The  rain  and  her  indisposition 
combine  to  upset  a  favorite  project  of  mine." 

"What  is  that,  sir?" 

"  It  is  an  old  man's  whim,  which  I  know  will  excite  a  smile, 
even  if  it  does  not  awaken  a  doubt  with  regard  to  my  sanity. 
For  days  I  have  been  indulging  a  pleasant  sort  of  dream,  about 
taking  her  asleep  to  the  cathedral,  and  having  her  awakened  by 
that  wonderful  organ  music.  It  would  be  such  a  delightful  sur- 
prise to  the  child.  You  don't  know  how  much  I  dislike  to  give 
up  the  idea." 

14* 


162  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  The  plan  is  rather  impracticable,  sir,"  answered  Charles, 
smiling,  "especially  on  such  a  night  as  this." 

"  Her  condition,  Charles,  alone  renders  it  impracticable.  If  I 
were  certain  that  she  was  only  tired,  and  not  sick,  I  would  not 
hesitate  to  try  it,  for  I  know  that  I  could  protect  her  from  the 
rain." 

"  Why  not  wait  until  to-morrow  night,  as  we  are  to  stay  here 
some  days  ?" 

"  Because  the  organist  will  not  play  again,  either  to-morrow 
or  the  next  night.  He  is  a  professor  of  music  in  Berne,  and 
only  comes  here  on  certain  nights  in  the  week  to  play  for  the 
beuefit  of  travelers,  for  many  lovers  of  music  come  to  Fribourg 
especially  to  hear  his  wonderful  performance.  Besides,  I  want 
Agnes  to  hear  the  music  before  she  knows  what  I  brought  her 
here  for." 

"  How  is  she  to  get  to  the  cathedral  ?" 

"  In  my  arms." 

Charles  now  laughed  outright,  and  said  : 

"  Indeed,  Uncle  John,  I  must  feel  your  pulse  and  examine 
your  brain,  for  you  must  be  either  delirious  or  deranged." 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  neither,  as  I  will  prove  to  you  if  you  will  only 
give  me  a  professional  assurance  that  Agnes  is  not  sick.  My 
only  disease  is  an  old  man's  desire  (perhaps  an  undue  one)  to 
give  to  a  blind  child  an  unexpected  pleasure,  of  whose  intensity 
you  can  form  no  idea  until  you  have  seen  for  yourself  her  great 
enjoyment.  So  tell  me,  first  of  all,  if  Agnes  has  a  fever,  and  if 
not,  then  tell  me  if  you  will  help  me  to  carry  out  ray  plan." 

"  She  has  no  fever,  I  assure  you,"  he  replied,  feeling  her  pulse ; 
"and  if  I  can  do  anything  to  help  you  I  will  most  gladly  do  it, 
but  I  do  not  believe  that  it  will  be  possible  to  carry  Agnes  to  the 
cathedral  without  awakening  her." 

"I  could  do  it,  if  it  would  only  stop  raining,  or  if  it  would 
even  rain  in  moderation ;  but  if  this  storm  continues,  I  do  not  my- 
self think  that  it  could  be  done." 

"  You  must  let  me  take  her,  Uncle  John  ;  you  are  not  strong 
enough." 

"  Indeed,  J  am.  I  could  carry  a  much  heavier  burden  than 
her  slight  weight,  and  besides  the  cathedral  is  a  very  short  dis- 
tance from  here.  As  to  your  taking  her,  you  would  awaken  her 
in  five  minutes ;  but,  old  bachelor  as  I  am,  I  know  how  to  take 
care  of  her,  for  she  has  gone  to  sleep  in  my  arms  many,  many 
times  in  her  life.  So  let  us  make  our  arrangements  to  go,  and 
if  there  should  be  a  lull  in  the  storm  we  will  be  ready  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  it.  Go  down  and  buy  our  tickets,  which  you  can  do 
here  in  the  hotel,  and  see  if  you  can  get  a  lantern." 


CAMERON    HALL.  163 

The  rain  still  poured,  the  thunder  shook  the  house,  and  every 
now  and  then  a  broad  bright  sheet  of  lightning  lighted  up  the 
room.  Uncle  John  walked  up  and  down,  thinking  of  Grace  and 
her  disappointment  when  he  should  give  Agnes  back  to  her,  still 
blind.  Presently  the  servant  came  with  the  lamp,  and  as  Uncle 
John  passed  by  the  sofa,  he  stopped  and  looked  at  the  sleeping 
child.  Weariness  had  prostrated  her  completely,  and  she  lay 
with  her  long  hair  shrouding  her  face,  and  her  arm  thrown  over 
her  eyes  as  if  to  shade  them  from  the  light. 

"  No  need,"  he  said,  "  to  shade  those  blind  eyes ;  would  to  God 
there  were  I" 

After  awhile  Charles  returned,  and  said  that  the  rain  had  tem- 
porarily ceased,  and  perhaps  if  they  would  go  at  once  they  could 
reach  the  cathedral  before  it  began  again. 

Their  preparations  were  soon  completed;  and  when  Charles 
saw  the  gentleness  and  dexterity  with  which  Uncle  John  handled 
Agnes,  he  was  convinced  that,  as  he  himself  had  said,  he  knew 
how  to  take  care  of  her. 

It  was  very  dark  when  they  went  into  the  street,  and  the  feeble 
light  of  the  lantern  was  almost  quenched  in  the  surrounding  gloom. 
"When  they  reached  the  cathedral  they  found  the  doors  not  yet 
opened,  and  they  were  compelled  to  stand  and  wait.  As  one  and 
another  were  added  to  the  waiting  group,  they  looked  with 
wonder  and  curiosity  upon  the  foreigner  with  his  singular  burden  ; 
but  unconscious  that  he  was  the  object  of  interest  or  remark, 
he  leaned  against  the  heavily  carved  portal,  and  in  his  anxiety 
to  keep  Agnes  from  being  awakened  he  forgot  all  else.  Presently 
the  crowd  gave  way  to  a  man  who  approached  with  a  lantern, 
and  motioning  Uncle  John  aside,  he  swung  open  the  heavy  doors. 
All  was  black  darkness  within,  except  that  in  the  dim  distance 
Uncle  John  and  Charles  saw  one  feeble  ray,  which  they  followed, 
until  they  found  it  was  the  sexton's  lantern,  by  the  light  of  which 
he  was  seating  persons  in  the  other  end  of  the  church.  By  de- 
grees, their  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  and  look- 
ing around  and  above  them,  where  two  or  three  glimmering  lights 
betrayed  the  position  of  the  organ,  they  selected  a  seat  at  a  proper 
distance. 

It  was  a  strange  audience  that  was  assembled  in  the  Fribourg 
cathedral  on  that  stormy  night ;  men  and  women  and  one  blind 
child,  some  from  a  distant  continent  beyond  the  sea,  some  from 
Britannia's  Isle,  and  others  who  were  born  and  reared  in  the 
same  old  town  which  had  singularly  enough  produced  the  sweet- 
est of  organs  and  the  most  gifted  of  musicians.  There  they  all 
sat  in  the  stillness  and  darkness  of  midnight.  Scarcely  a  whisper 
was  heard,  and  a  reverent  silence  pervaded  the  assembly. 


164  CAMERON     HALL. 

Presently  the  deep  trembling  tones  of  the  organ  broke  the 
stillness,  and  deeper  and  louder  and  more  tremulous  they  grew, 
until  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  the  rushing  wind,,  of  which  it 
was  so  wonderful  an  imitation,  was  not  sweeping  wildly  through 
the  cathedral  aisles. 

Uncle  John  felt  a  thrill  pass  through  Agnes's  frame  as  she 
sprang  up,  and  called  aloud  : 

"  Uncle  John  I" 

He  clasped  her  hand  tightly,  and  whispered  : 

"Here  I  am,  Agnes." 

She  was  satisfied.  She  knew  not,  cared  not  where  she  was  or 
how  she  had  come  there ;  she  knew  that  Uncle  John  was  with 
her,  and  that  she  was  listening  to  her  own  dear  organ,  and  she 
was  happy. 

The  strange  performance  went  on.  Thunder,  lightning,  wind, 
and  storm  exhausted  themselves  in  wild  unearthly  music,  and 
then  died  away  in  a  strain  so  sweet  and  low  that  it  might  almost 
have  been  mistaken  for  an  angel's  whisper.  Quieker  and  quicker 
grew  the  throb  of  the  childish  heart,  and  tighter  was  the  grasp 
with  which  she  clung  to  Uncle  John,  but  she  did  not  speak.  It 
was  a  double  spell  that  bound  him,  for  he  heard  the  music  through 
Agnes's  ears  and  felt  it  through  her  soul.  Sometimes  its  crush- 
ing power  made  the  stone  walls  tremble,  and  then  gradually  the 
strain  wandered  farther  and  farther  away,  until  all  that  was  left 
was  a  soft,  sweet  echo,  so  pure  and  so  distant  that  it  might  have 
been  awakened  in  the  snowy  bosom  of  the  far-away  Mont  Blanc. 

At  length  there  was  a  long  pause :  artist  and  instrument  seemed 
alike  to  have  exhausted  their  wealth  of  harmony.  Uncle  John's 
hand  had  grasped  Agnes's  shawl,  when  there  stole  through  the 
gloom  such  a  strain  of  heavenly  sweetness  that  his  outstretched 
arm  was  arrested,  and  though  he  was  not  unfamiliar  with  this 
strange  music,  still  he  listened  in  breathless  wonder  as  he  had 
done  the  first  time  that  he  ever  heard  it. 

Sweeter  than  the  softest  flute  it  floated  through  the  air,  and 
presently  another  strain  was  interwoven  with  it, — a  low,  subdued, 
liquid  tone  of  the  human  voice,  that  blended  with  each  organ  note 
the  most  exquisite  harmony.  It  did  not  strike  the  ear;  the 
listener  knew  not  that  it  reached  the  heart  through  the  medium 
of  a  bodily  organ ;  it  seemed  to  melt  and  flow  at  once  into  the 
Yery  soul. 

Agnes  was  very  still ;  she  clung  closely  to  Uncle  John,  and 
scarcely  dared  to  breathe. 

At  length  it  was  all  over ;  the  last  note  died  away,  and  they 
waited,  but  in  vain,  for  another  awakening.  Presently  a  soft 
whisper  said : 


CAMERON    HALL.  165 

"Uncle  John,  come  close." 

He  leaned  down,  and  she  asked,  softly : 

"  Uncle  John,  is  it  heaven  ?" 

He  did  not  reply,  but  the  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes,  tears  of 
pleasure  at  the  thought  that  he  should  have  given  her  so  much 
happiness. 

The  audience  quietly  dispersed.  The  storm  was  over ;  the 
elements  had  ceased  their  strife,  as  if  to  listen,  and  the  spirit  of 
sweet  peace  had  been  wafted  upon  the  wings  of  that  music  until  it 
seemed  to  rest  upon  earth,  and  air,  and  sky. 

Agnes  did  not  speak  until  the  fresh  air  upon  her  face  told  her 
that  they  were  out  of  doors,  and  then  she  only  asked : 

"Where  have  we  been,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"In  the  church,  my  daughter." 

This  was  all ;  on  their  way  to  the  hotel  she  did  not  say  another 
word. 

When  Uncle  John  left  the  cathedral,  he  looked  in  vain  for 
Charles.  He  knew  that  they  went  in  together,  and  that  he  had 
taken  a  seat  near  him,  but  he  had  not  thought  of  him  since.  He 
waited  a  few  minutes  at  the  door,  but  he  did  not  come,  and  sup- 
posing that  he  must  have  gone  on,  he  returned  with  Agnes  to  the 
hotel.  After  seating  her  upon  the  sofa.  Uncle  John  waited  some 
minutes  for  her  to  tell  him  how  she  liked  the  music,  but  she  was 
not  disposed  to  talk,  and  at  last  he  asked  : 

"What  are  you  thinking  about  now,  daughter  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking  that  I  did  not  want  any  eyes  to-night." 

"Why  not,  Agnes  ?" 

"  Because,  Uncle  John,  ears  and  soul  were  enough  for  me  to- 
night." 

"  Would  you  like  to  know,  Agnes,  what  I  was  thinking  about 
while  I  was  listening  to  that  beautiful  music  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  was  thanking  God  that  there  was  one  pleasure  in  this  world 
that  my  little  blind  Agnes  could  enjoy  just  as  much  as  anybody 
else.     That  was  what  the  music  said  to  me  all  the  time." 

"And  it  said  to  me,  Uncle  John,  'Agnes,  you  do  not  need  any 
eyes  to-night;'  and  my  heart  said  back,  'No,  I  do  not.'  But, 
oh !  Uncle  John,  while  I  listened  to  that  last  strain,  I  forgot  that 
I  was  blind.  I  did  not  think  about  myself  at  all.  I  thought  it 
must  be  heaven,  and  that  I  was  listening  to  the  angel's  song.  I 
was  never,  never  so  happy  before  !" 

Just  then  Charles  Beaufort  burst  into  the  room,  saying : 

"  I  like  old  cathedrals  well  enough  in  the  daytime,  but  I  would 
not  care  to  spend  the  night  in  one,  as  I  thought  I  would  have  to 
do  to-night." 


166  CAMERON    HALL. 

"How  so,  Charles?"  inquired  Uncle  John. 

"  Well,  sir,  when  I  awoke  from  the  trance  into  which  the  music 
had  thrown  me,  I  was  leaning  against  a  column  far  away  from 
everybody  else,  and  the  people  were  leaving  the  church.  How  I 
got  there,  I  do  not  know;  but  I  do  know  that  when  I  found  out 
that  there  was  a  probability  of  my  spending  the  night  in  that 
dark,  lonely  old  church,  I  stumbled  along  toward  the  door  with 
more  haste  than  reverence.  I  was  not  far  from  it  when  it  closed, 
with  a  bang,  to  which  I  responded  with  a  shout.  My  cries 
reached  the  sexton,  who  opened  it  again,  and  called  out  some- 
thing in  German,  to  which  I  eagerly  replied  in  English,  and 
rushing  toward  the  light  cleared  the  door  with  a  bound,  and  left 
him  muttering  something,  which  I  interpreted  as  curses  upon 
that  same  unfortunate  'stupid  Englishman'  who  gets  so  many 
maledictions  in  Paris." 

"  I  congratulate  you  upon  your  escape  from  prison,  Charles," 
said  Uncle  John,  laughing.  "Next  time,  you  must  keep  your 
senses  about  you  and  be  wide  awake." 

"  I  can  do  so,  sir,  ordinarily  ;  but  a  man  is  excusable  for  being 
somewhat  bewildered  under  such  circumstances.  Uncle  John,  I 
am  fully  repaid  for  coming  to  Fribourg." 

"And  I,  Charles,"  he  answered,  with  a  glance  at  Agnes's  happy 
face,  "am  repaid  a  thousandfold  for  whatever  fatigue  or  incon- 
venience I  have  encountered  in  getting  here.  You  see  that, 
after  all,  the  old  man's  whim  proved  neither  foolish  nor  imprac- 
ticable." 

"No,  sir,  it  was  a  complete  success.  What  did  you  think, 
Agnes,  when  that  music  woke  you  ?" 

"I  did  not  think  anything,  Dr.  Charles,  I  was  too  happy  to 
think." 

"  What  did  you  think  of  the  music  ?" 

"  I  did  not  think  about  it  at  all,  sir,  I  only  felt  it." 

"  That  is  true,  Agnes,  and  is,  perhaps,  the  very  best  description 
that  can  be  given  of  it." 

Agnes  was  now  thoroughly  awake  and  refreshed,  and  Uncle 
John  could  not  persuade  her  to  go  to  bed.  He  thought  that  it  was 
only  excitement,  but  she  insisted  that  the  music,  to  use  her  own 
expression,  "had  rested  her."  Uncle  John  and  Charles  discussed, 
until  a  late  hour,  the  instrument  and  the  performer,  and  their  won- 
derful adaptation  to  each  other ;  but  Agnes  did  not  talk,  nor  did 
she  seem  to  be  thinking ;  perhaps  she  was  still  *'feeling^^  the 
music. 

When  she  knelt  down  that  night,  she  did  not  know  that  any 
other  ear  save  that  of  her  Heavenly  Father  heard  her  thank  Him 
for  having  given  her  ears  instead  of  eyes  ;  but  Uncle  John  looked 


CAMERON    HALL.  167 

with  reverence  upon  that  little  kneeling  figure,  and  listened  with 
awe  to  that  strange  thanksgiving. 

They  had  been  more  than  a  week  in  Fribourg,  and  had  heard 
the  organ  three  times.     One  morning,  Uncle  John  said: 

"Agnes,  it  is  time  to  leave  Fribourg;   are  you  ready  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  if  you  want  to  go,"  she  answered,  her  tone  contra- 
dicting her  words. 

"We  ought  to  go,  my  daughter,  if  we  hope  to  reach  Paris  in 
time  for  the  steamer.     You  want  to  go  home,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  want  to  go  home;  but  I  wish  either  that  my  home 
was  in  Fribours^,  or  that  the  organ  and  organist  were  in  Hope- 
dale." 

"I  wish,  indeed,  my  daughter,  that  you  could  always  have  ac- 
cess to  such  a  pleasure,  and  I  am  truly  glad  that  I  have  been 
able  to  let  you  enjoy  it  once  in  your  life.  You  know  now  why 
I  wanted  you  to  come  with  me  to  Fribourg,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  you  wanted  to  hear  this  organ,  and  you  wanted  me 
to  hear  it,  too." 

"  I  wanted  you  to  hear  it,  Agnes,  that  is  all." 

"Don't  you  like  it  yourself,  TJncle  John?"  she  asked,  amazed. 

"Yes,  my  daughter,  few  persons  could  enjoy  it  more,  for  you 
know  how  dearly  I  love  music;  but  I  have  heard  it  several  times 
before,  and  should  never  have  undertaken  such  a  journey  at  my 
age  just  to  hear  it  again.  No,  Agnes,  I  came  here  solely  for 
your  pleasure,  and  intended  to  do  so  when  I  left  home." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"Because  I  thought  that  the  surprise  would  make  it  the  more 
pleasant,  and  so  it  did,  didn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  happy  feeling  it  was  to  be 
awakened  by  such  music." 

"  I  am  sorry,  Agnes,  that  we  must  leave  this  pleasant  old  mu- 
sical town,  but  we  will  be  obliged  to  go." 

"When,  Uncle  John?" 

"We  ought  to  go  to-morrow."' 

"  Then  may  I  go  to  the  cathedral  again  to-night?" 

"The  organist  will  not  play  again  until  to-morrow  night. '^ 

"Just  once  more.  Uncle  John,"  she  pleaded.  "Only  stay  long 
enough  to  let  me  hear  that  music  once  more,  and  I  will  not  ask 
again." 

"If  we  wait,  Agnes,  until  the  day  after  to-morrow,  we  will 
have  to  travel  night  and  day  in  order  to  get  to  Paris  in  time  for 
the  steamer,  and  I  am  afraid  that  you  cannot  bear  the  fatigue." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Uncle  John,  I  can  bear  anything ;  and  I  will  not 
complain  once,  or  say  that  I  am  tired,  if  you  will  only  let  me 
stay." 


168  CAMERON    HALL. 

He  could  not  resist  the  childish  pleading  and  the  earnest  face, 
and  he  could  not  refuse  the  pleasure  to  one  who  had  so  few. 

The  next  night,  when  the  last  strain  of  the  music  had  died 
away  forever,  it  was  painfully  echoed  by  the  low  sob  of  a  child- 
ish heart,  which  clung  to  this  one  great  pleasure  of  her  blind  life 
as  she  would  have  done  to  a  dear  human  friend. 


CHAPTER  XY. 


"Almost  at  home,  Agnes  I"  said  Uncle  John,  as  from  the  win- 
dow of  the  railway  car  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  spire  of  Hope- 
dale  Church.     "Almost  at  home,  my  daughter  !" 

They  were  whirled  along  through  woods  and  fields  all  familiar 
enough  to  him,  but  she  sat  in  her  blindness,  a  stranger  to  scenes 
among  which  she  had  dwelt  from  her  infancy.  There  was  no 
darkness,  however,  in  her  heart  or  upon  her  face ;  all  was  the 
sunshine  of  joy  there,  for  the  thought  of  home  had  lifted  every 
cloud  from  her  spirit. 

To  the  mother  the  meeting  was  one  of  painful  pleasure.  She 
had  tried  hard  from  the  beginning  not  to  hope,  and  she  believed 
that  she  had  now  become  accustomed  to  the  thought  that  hope 
was  vain  and  effort  useless ;  but  when  she  saw  Uncle  John  lift 
Agnes  out  of  the  carriage  and  lead  her  to  the  house,  just  as  he 
used  to  do,  she  realized  how  bitterly  she  was  disappointed  ;  and 
when  she  clasped  to  her  heart  her  little  blind  child,  as  blind  as 
ever,  the  joy  of  reunion  was  for  the  time  lost  in  sorrow. 

"Take  me  to  the  parlor,  mother,"  she  said,  "where  my  organ 

is."  •«, 

The  mother  led  her  into  the  parlor  and  seated  her  at^he  organ. 
"I  don't  want  to  play  now,  mother.     I  must  talk  to  you  first, 

and  to  my  organ  next ;   but  I  like  to  sit  here  and  touch  the  keys. 

I  am  so  glad,  so  very  glad,"  she  added,  with  one  hand  grasping 

her  mother's,  and  the  other  resting  upon  the  keys,  "to  be  near 

you  both  once  more.     Uncle  John,  mother  has  dressed  the  room 

with  flowers  for  us,  hasn't  she  ?" 

"Yes,  Agnes,  it  is  full  of  flowers,  but  how  did  you  know  it?'* 
"The  whole  house  is  perfumed  with  the  yellow  jasmine  that  I 

love  so  much.     I  wonder  if  it  is  as  pretty  as  it  is  sweet  ?" 

"Yes,  Agnes,  it  is  very  beautiful,  and  grows  in  long  garlands, 

and  looks  just  like  spring.     I  think  with  you,  that  it  is  one  of 

the  sweetest  flowers  in  the  world." 


CAMERON    HALL.  169 

The  child  talked  on  in  a  joyous  strain,  for  she  was  very  happy, 
and  her  heart  must  find  some  outpouring;  but  her  mother  said 
very  little.  Uncle  John  did  not  stay  long.  He  had  met  Grace 
as  he  had  parted  from  her,  kindly,  almost  tenderly.  There  was 
no  need  to  impose  any  restraint  either  upon  her  words  or  man- 
ner, for  she  was  too  much  preoccupied  with  Agnes  to  have  re- 
marked it,  if  there  had  been  more  of  kindness  than  ever  before. 
He  needed  no  words  to  assure  him  how  welcome  he  was,  and  how 
unfeignedly  glad  she  was  to  see  him — her  face  told  all  that ;  and 
yet  it  was  so  natural,  and  so  much  a  matter  of  course,  that  when 
he  reflected  upon  it,  it  gave  him  no  encouragement  to  hope 
either  that  she  responded  to  his  feelings,  or  even  suspected  what 
they  were. 

When  he  went  home  he  was  welcomed  gladly  by  his  servants, 
and  his  house  wore  its  most  inviting  aspect,  for  Grace  and  Julia 
and  Eva  had  used  their  utmost  efforts  to  make  it  comfortable, 
and  the  choicest  flowers  from  the  Hall  had  been  pressed  into  ser- 
vice to  beautify  jt;  yet  when  tJncle  John  went  into  the  parlor, 
it  looked  lonely;  when  he  sought  refuge  in  the  library,  he  turned 
away  from  those  voiceless  companions,  and  longed  for  a  human 
friend ;  and  when  he  finally  wandered  into  the  dining-room  and 
looked  upon  the  tea-table,  already  spread  out,  with  its  solitary, 
plate,  he  thought  of  the  social  meals  to  which  he  had  been  for 
months  accustomed,  with  Charles  Beaufort  opposite  him  and 
Agnes  at  his  side,  and  never  since  the  disappointment  of  his 
early  life  had  Uncle  John  felt  so  lonely  as  he  did  during  the  first 
half  hour  after  his  return  home.  i 

He  threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair  by  the  window,  and  ex- 
claimed : 

"Heigh-ho  I  Uncle  John,  you  will  be  lonely  enough  now,  old 
fellow  1  No  Charles,  no  Agnes,  nobody  to  be  anxious  about,  no- 
body to  talk  to,  nobody's  comfort  to  consult  but  your  own  I 
Heigh-ho  I  heigh-ho  1  I  suppose  that  you  will  get  accustomed  to 
it  afteY  awhile,  as  you  were  before  !" 

"Here  he  is,  sure  enough  I"  exclaimed  a  merry  voice,  as  two 
arms  encircled  him,  and  a  bright  face  was  presented  for  a  kiss. 
"Uncle  John,  I  am  glad  to  have  you  at  home  once  more." 

"And  I  am  just  as  glad  to  see  my  sunbeam,"  he  answered. 
"Why,  child,  your  face  has  brightened  the  whole  room." 

Julia  and  her  father  followed,  and  Uncle  John  would  have  been 
the  most  exacting  old  bachelor  in  the  world  if  he  had  desired  any 
more  cordial  welcome  than  he  received  from  them  all. 

"Whose  work  is  all  this,  Eva?"  said  Uncle  John,  pointing  to 
the  vases  of  flowers,  the  floras,  and  the  basket  hanging  in  the 

15 


170  CAMERON    HALL. 

window,  with  its  garlands  of  jasmine  drooping  gracefally,  and 
swaying  in  the  breeze.  His  eves  rested  most  admiringly  upon 
this  last,  and  Eva  answered : 

"  I  knew  that  it  would  be  so  !  Everything  that  sister  does  you 
think  is  done  better  than  anybody  else  could  do  it.  AVhen  we 
were  arranging  these  flowers  this  morning,  I  said  that  you  would 
admire  her  basket  more  than  all  the  rest.'' 

"  But  I  have  not  said  so,  Eva,"  he  replied,  laughing.  "  I  have 
not  said  that  it  was  handsomer  than  either  the  vases  or  the  floras, 
neither  did  I  know  that  it  was  her  handiwork.  It  was  vourself, 
Eva,  not  Uncle  John,  who  decided  in  favor  of  the  basket." 

"Ah,  Uncle  John,  I  can  tell  well  enough  what  you  think,  even 
without  words.  However,  I  believe  I  must  agree  with  you  that 
it  is  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  room." 

"  The  flowers  are  all  beautiful,  Eva,  and  most  tastefully  ar- 
ranged. It  is  almost  a  pity  that  you  have  wasted  your  time  and 
taste  upon  the  dwelling  of  an  old^bachelor," 

"They  were  not  wasted.  Uncle  John.  If  you  are  an  old 
bachelor,  you  love  and  admire  pretty  things  as  much  as  any- 
body; and  it  was  just  because  you  had  nobody  at  home  to  dress 
up  your  house  to  welcome  you  that  we  did  it." 

"  Then,  Eva,  there  is  some  compensation  after  all  for  my 
bachelorhood,  if  I  can  enlist  the  sym))athies  and  command  the 
services  of  warm  young  hearts  and  skillful  fingers  like  yours  and 
Julia's.     But  it  is  not  every  old  bachelor  who  is  so  fortunate." 

"No,  sir,  because  you  are  not  crabbed  and  crusty  as.mpst  of 
them  are.  You  are  so  easy  to  please.  Uncle  John,  so  little  dis- 
posed to  find  fault  with  and  complain  of  the  world  at  large,  and 
your  own  condition  in  particular,  that  nobody  would  suspect  you 
of  being  an  old  bachelor  if  you  did  not  tell  them  so." 

"  Well,  Eva,"  said  her  father,  "  Uncle  John  doubtless  feels 
obliged  for  your  compliment  to  him,  but  it  is  given  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  whole  brotherhood  to  which  he  belongs ;  and  these, 
I  imagine,  would  not  be  greatly  flattered  by  your  opinion  of 
them  as  a  class." 

"  Why,  papa,  they  could  not  be  surprised  at  it,  for  their  crusti- 
ness is  proverbial,  and  I  know  that  Uncle  John  is  admitted  by 
everybody  to  be  an  exception  to  them  generally." 

"Eva,"  said  Uncle  John,  "you  have  given  me  the  sunny  side 
of  bachelorhood ;  come  with  me,  now,  and  I  will  show  you  its 
shadow." 

She  foHowed  him,  and  so  did  the  others,  into  the  dining-room, 
and  he  pointed  to  the  single  plate  upon  the  little  tea-table. 

"  That  is  what  I  call  the  very  embodiment  of  loneliness.  I 
was  accustomed  to  it  before  I  went  away ;  but  now,  since  I  have 


CAMERON    HALL.  171 

had  a  little  family  circle  around  me,  of  which  I  was  the  center, 
you  have  no  idea  how  desolate  this  looks." 

"  It  is  lonely  enough !"  answered  Eva.  "  I  would  not  stay 
here,  Uncle  John.  Come,  go  home  with  us,  and  stay  awhile  at 
the  Hall,  and  accustom  yourself  to  this  by  degrees." 

"A  fine  way  to  accustom  myself  to  it,"  he  said,  smiling,  "to  go 
to  the  Hall  and  be  for  awhile  one  of  your  happy,  social  circle ! 
No,  Eva,  this  is  home,  and  I  must  stay  here,  and  I  might  as  well 
begin  at  once." 

"Our  circle  is  not  so  happy  and  social.  Uncle  John,"  she 
answered,  in  a  low  tone,  "  as  it  used  to  be.  Papa  and  sister  are 
now-a-days  very  often  silent  and  sad." 

Uncle  John  saw  the  deep  shadow  that  gathered  upon  Mr. 
Cameron's  face,  and  heard  Julia's  half-uttered  sigh.  He  wondered 
what  could  be  the  cause  of  that  silence  and  sadness  of  which 
Eva  had  spoken,  and  which  he  himself  had  even  thus  early  re- 
marked ;  but  he  hastened  to  chaage  the  conversation,  and  said, 
pleasantly : 

"  Well,  Eva,  if  I  cannot  go  home  with  you,  you  can  all,  at 
least,  stay  to  tea  with  me  to-night,  and  relieve  me  of  a  few 
hours'  loneliness.     What  do  you  say  ?" 

"With  all  my  heart.  Uncle  John,  if  papa  and  sister  will 
consent." 

They  assented ;  and  when  tea  was  announced,  and  they  went 
into  the  room.  Uncle  John  said  : 

"  Strange,  indeed,  what  a  difference  is  made  in  the  aspect  of 
a  table  by  the  addition  of  two  or  three  cups  and  plates!  When 
I  came  in  here,  an  hour  ago,  I  thought  that  it  was  the  most 
cheerless  looking  room  that  I  had  ever  seen.  I^ow  it  looks  quite 
comfortable.     Julia,  you  must  pour  out  the  tea." 

When  they  were  seated  at  the  table,  he  said : 

"  This  reminds  me  of  our  little  round-table  in  Paris.  I  played 
the  part  of  the  lady  there,  and  made  the  tea.  Charles  sat  oppo- 
site me,  and  Agnes  on  my  right.  We  were  famous  housekeepers 
there,  I  assure  you." 

"  Poor  little  Agnes !"  said  Mr.  Cameron.  "  So,  after  all  your 
trouble.  Uncle  John,  nothing  could  be  done  for  her !" 

"No,  sir;  her  blindness  is  total,  and  life-long." 

"  So  I  was  afraid  you  would  find  it.  I  always  believed  that 
your  effort  would  be  a  useless  one.'^ 

"Not  altogether  useless,  Mr.  Cameron.  It  is  a  satisfaction  to 
rae  beyond  all  price  to  know  that  I  have  done  all  that  I  could  for 
her.  I  was  not,  as  you  know,  very  sanguine  of  success ;  and  yet, 
if  I  had  not  made  the  attempt,  I  should  always  have  reproached 
myself.     I  loved  the  child,  and" — he  added  with  a  slight  hesita- 


172  CAMERON    HALL. 

tion — "  I  felt  interested  in  the  mother.  She  was  not  able  to  incur 
the  expense  of  the  experiment,  which  I  could  do  very  well.  If  it 
had  been  merely  to  confer  a  passing  pleasure  upon  Agnes,  I 
should  not  have  thought  it  worth  so  much  trouble  and  incon- 
venience and  anxiety;  but  to  try  to  give  her  sight  seemed  to  me 
a  duty.  Now  that  it  is  done,  t  am  satisfied ;  disappointed,  it  is  true, 
for  I  hoped  more  than  I  was  conscious  of;  but  still  I  am  satis- 
fied, now  that  it  is  decreed  that  she  must  ever  remain  blind,  and 
all  that  we  can  do  for  her  is  to  make  her  as  happy  as  we  can 
under  the  circumstances." 

Julia  looked  an  earnest  approval,  but,  as  usual,  said  nothing; 
but  Eva  spoke  out,  as  she  always  did,  without  reserve : 

"  I  told  you  so,  papa  I  I  told  you  that  Uncle  John  was  dif- 
ferent from  all  the  other  bachelors  that  ever  lived.  Show  me 
another  anywhere  that  would  be  so  good  and  unselfish,  especially 
to  a  child  in  no  way  related  to  him.  I  don't  believe  that  there  is 
another  Uncle  John  in  the  wodd !" 

The  hearty  sincerity  of  the  speaker,  the  admiration  which  he 
had  so  unconsciously  excited,  and  the  abruptness  and  unexpect- 
edness with  which  she  spoke  out  her  feelings,  altogether  discon- 
certed Uncle  John,  and  in  a  moment  the  crimson  flush  mounted 
to  his  temples.     Then  he  said,  quietly: 

"  I  deserve  no  credit  for  what  I  have  done,  Eva.  It  does  not 
argue  any  very  unusual  degree  of  kindness  and  unselfishness  to 
feel  sorry  for  a  blind  child,  and  to  be  willing  to  relieve  her." 

He  changed  the  subject;  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  talking  to 
Mr.  Cameron  of  the  condition  of  the  country,  and  the  disastrous 
results  to  both  sections,  of  the  war  just  commenced  ;  a  war  whose 
end  none  could  foresee,  whose  sufferings  none  could  compute.  He 
talked,  as  he  always  did,  calmly,  dispassionately,  and  reasonably; 
and  Mr.  Cameron  was  impressed,  as  he  had  often  been,  with  the 
justness,  the  freedom  from  prejudice,  the  candor  and  good  sense 
with  which  he  viewed  things.  His  serenity  and  evenness  of 
temper  were  among  his  most  engaging  characteristics,  and  as  the 
heat  of  passion  never  obscured  the  clearness  of'  his  mental  per- 
ceptions, his  judgment  was  generally  good  and  reliable.  He 
spoke  of  the  probable  duration  of  the  war,  of  the  absurdity  of 
the  expectation  of  the  Federal  Government  to  march  a  victorious 
army  direct  to  Richmond,  and  in  sixty  days  to  crush  a  feeble  and 
powerless  rebellion.  Again,  he  foresaw  the  error  of  the  Southern 
people  in  believing  that  one  unsuccessful  effort  would  satisfy  their 
enemies,  and  that  a  single  victory  would  drive  them  back  to  their 
homes,  never  to  rally  again  for  the  conquest  of  the  South.  He 
foretold  the  pertinacity  and  success  with  which  fanaticism  would 
go  hand  in  hand  with  political  ambition,  and  how  for  a  time  they 


CAMERON    HALL.  173 

would  sway  the  public  mind  and  bend  a  nation  to  their  will.  He 
spoke  of  Old  Virginia  with  moistened  eyes,  and  with  that  love 
for  the  dust  of  his  mother  State  which  characterizes  all  her 
children,  and  which  time,  absence,  exile  itself,  can  never  eradicate 
from  their  hearts.  He  spoke,  and  Mr.  Cameron  responded  with 
a  groan  rather  than  a  sigh,  of  her  desolated  homes,  her  soil  not 
sprinkled,  but  literally  drenched,  with  the  blood  not  only  of  her 
sons,  but  with  that  of  the  noblest  and  best  of  the  land ;  of  her 
ravaged  fields,  her  ruined  farms,  her  homeless,  wandering  children, 
her  exiled  fathers,  her  unprotected  wives  and  daughters.  Julia's 
blood  ran  cold  as  she  listened,  for  even  she  had  never  taken  into 
the  account  all  these  horrible  evils;  but  Eva  heard  the  recital 
with  a  terror  which  at  first  chained  her  down  in  breathless  si- 
lence, and  then  expressed  itself  in  a  shiver  that  thrilled  her  whole 
frame.     Uncle  John  saw  it,  and  said,  kindly : 

"  I  was  not  thinking,  daughter.  Such  themes  are  not  suitable 
for  young  ears  like  yours  and  Julia's,  and  it  was  very  thoughtless 
in  me  to  draw  such  gloomy  pictures.  Your  father  and  I  have  had 
some  experience,  and  we  know  that  these  are  the  evils  that  gen- 
erally follow  in  the  train  of  war;  let  us  hope,  however,  my 
children,"  he  added,  with  a  cheerfulness  that  he  did  not  feel, 
"  that  a  kind  Providence  will  in  this  instance  avert  many  of  them, 
and  by  shortening  the  duration  of  the  war,  spare  us  much  of  its 
suffering." 

"  You  need  not  apologize  to  the  girls,  Uncle  John,"  said  Mr. 
Cameron,  "  for  what  you  hav<e  said.  You  have  spoken  only  the 
truth." 

"  So  I  have,  sir;  but  the  truth  need  not  always  be  thrust  upon 
ns  when  it  is  both  unwelcome  and  unnecessary.  There  was  really 
little  use  in  rending  the  veil  which  mercifully  concealed  these  hor- 
rors. The  revelation  can  do  them  no  earthly  good,  but  it  may 
inflict  upon  them,  by  anticipation,  a  degree  of  suffering  which 
they  might  have  been  spared  at  least  for  some  time  to  come,  if 
not  altogether." 

"I  shall  not  anticipate  these  evils.  Uncle  John,"  said  Eva, 
"for  that  is  not  my  habit,  and,  moreover,  I  shall  not  believe  that 
they  are  coming  until  I  actually  feel  them." 

"And  I,"  said  Julia,  "  will  act  very  differently.  I  shall  think 
about  them,  and  try  and  familiarize  myself  with  the  thought  of 
them,  so  that  if  they  do  come  I  shall  not  be  so  overwhelmed  with 
surprise  as  not  to  know  how  to  act." 

"And,  meanwhile,  make  yourself  miserable,  sister,  by  expecting 
evils  that  may  perhaps  never  come." 

"  No,  Eva,  not  at  all.     I  shall  not  necessarily  expect  them.    I 

15* 


y 


174  CAMERON     HALL. 

shall  onlv  look  npon  them  as  probable,  and  by  reflecting  npon 
them  before  they  come,  trying  to  decide  What  is  right  for  me  to 
do,  I  shall  be  prepared  to  meet  any  emergency." 

"  There  spoke  my  own  daughter  1"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  approv- 
ingly. 

"I  think,  Julia,"  said  Uncle  John,  "that  you  will  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  decide  what  you  are  going  to  do,  unless  you  really  expect 
the  emergency." 

"It  may  be  difficult,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered  modestly, 
"but  I  do  not  thii:k  that  it  is  impossible.  I  do  not  know  what 
is  necessary  for  others,  but  for  mvself  I  do  know  that  reflection  is 
always  needful.  I  never  can  act  wisely  and  properly  when  I  am 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  brought  face  to  face  with  a  great 
issue  My  judgment  is  sure  to  be  influenced  by  surrounding  cir- 
cumstances, and  I  become  bewildered,  and  sometimes  cannot  tell 
right  from  wrong;  so  that  I  should  greatly  deplore  the  necessity 
of  deciding  some  great  and  important  question  suddenly,  especi- 
ally if  I  were  in  the  midst  of  circumstances  which  would  make 
it  more  easy,  or  more  comfortable,  or  safer  to  do  the  wrong  than 
the  right." 

"I  believe,  daughter,  replied  Uncle  John,  "that  you  are  right, 
as  usual.  You  are  not  sorry,  then,  to  have  looked  upon  the  pic- 
ture of  the  realities  of  war  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  T  was  at  first  both  startled  and  astonished ;  but  I 
would  rather  be  so  now,  than  to  have  evils,  of  whose  existence 
I  never  dreamed  hurled  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  upon  me. 
I  would  rather  know  that  the  mountain  on  whose  green  slope  I 
had  made  my  home  was  a  volcano,  than  to  learn  it  for  the  first 
time  by  being  awakened  from  a  quiet  sleep  to  see  the  glare  of 
the  lava  stream  and  to  feel  the  stifling  ashes  of  the  eruption. 
No,  Uncle  John,  I  am  not  sorry  that  you  have  told  me  this  to- 
night. Whatever  may  come  now,  I  shall  not  be  startled  and 
unprepared." 

"Unprepared,  sister  I"  exclaimed  Eva.  "What  preparation 
can  anybody  make  to  meet  such  evils  as  Uncle  John  has  de- 
scribed ?" 

"  I  think,  Eva,  that  it  is  no  small  advantage  to  have  looked 
them  calmly  in  the  face  beforehand.  Any  calamity  is  greatly  in- 
creased by  suddenness.  It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  a  difference 
between  making  one's  self  miserable  by  anticipating  evil,  and 
quietly  familiarizing  one's  self  with  the  thought  of  it  when  it  is 
not  only  possible  but  probable.  The  one  is  a  want  of  faith,  the 
other  is  a  Christian  duty." 

"  Well,  sister,  I  hope  that  if  it  ever  comes  I  shall  be  able  to 
bear  it  like  a  Christian,  but  I  cannot  help  being  sorry  to  have 


CAMERON    HALL.  175 

heard  of  it  beforehand ;  for  if  I  allow  myself  to  think  of  it,  I  shall 
be  all  the  time  terrified  and  miserable." 

"  Then,  child,"  said  Uncle  John,  "try  and  forget  what  I  have 
said,  and  God  grant  that  you  may  never  know  more  of  the  evils 
of  war  than  you  have  felt  to-night  while  listening  to  my  fancy 
sketch!"  ^ 

He  could  not  bear  the  unusual  sight  of  a  cloud  upon  that  bright 
face,  and  he  added,  cheerfully : 

^  ''  Never  mind,  daughter  I  "there  is  a  bright  as  well  as  a  dark 
side  to  the  picture,  and  you  shall  look  upon  that;  and  when  papa 
and  Uncle  John  are  captain  and  first  lieutenant  of  the  old  men's 
company,  you  and  Julia  shall  make  our  uniforms.  The  Con- 
federate gray  will  correspond  with  our  hair,  and  I  flatter  myself 
that  we  will  make  very  respectable  looking  officers." 

The  cloud  did  not  clear  away  as  he  expected,  but  it  rather 
deepened,  and  he  saw  the  tears  come  into  her  eyes,  as  she  ex- 
claimed ; 

"Oh,  no,  Uncle  John,  never  I  It  almost  broke  my  heart  to 
send  Walter  off,  although  he  was  young,  and  I  knew  tha't  he  ought 
to  go ;  but  I  could  not  bear  to  see  you  go,  old  man  as  you  are,  and 
as  to  papa,  that  is  not  to  be  thought  of  I  I  cannot  give  up  my 
father,  even  to  my  country  !" 

The  father's  eyes  moistened  as  he  looked  at  his  young  daugh- 
ters and  thought  how  desolate  they  would  indeed  be  if  he  should 
be  compelled  to  leave  them,  but  he  answered  : 

"You  will  scarcely  be  called  upon  to  give  up  your  father,  my 
daughter.  The  country  will  have  need  of  strong  young  men ; 
old  ones  such  as  Uncle  John  and  I  would  only  serve  to  fill  up 
hospitals  instead  of  ranks,  and  would  require  nursing  instead  of 
doing  active  service.  But  what  says  my  other  daughter  ?  Julia, 
if  I  go  into  the  army,  will  you  make  my  uniform  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  will  make  your  uniform,  and,  God  helping  me, 
will  see  you  go  without  one  remonstrance  or  one  word  of  com- 
plaint to  add  to  your  burden  of  anxiety  at  the  thought  of  leaving 
us  unprotected.  I  pray,  papa,  that  I  may  be  spared  such  a  trial; 
but  if  the  country  has  need  of  you,  and  it  is  right  for  you  to  go,  I 
trust  that  I  shall  be  enabled  to  bear  it  bravely  as  a  Christian 
Southern  woman  ought  to  do." 

The  conversation  had  now  become  not  only  serious,  it  was 
positively  sad,  and  Uncle  John  exclaimed  : 

"  Come,  come,  girls,  this  will  never  do  !  It  is  entirely  out  of 
the  question  to  give  me  such  a  welcome  after  so  long  an  ab- 
sence I  Come,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  we  did  and  saw  in  the 
old  countries,  and  of  the  pleasures  that  even  a  blind  child  found 
there." 


176  CAMERON    HALL. 

And  then  he  told  them  how  they  spent  their  time  on  the 
steamer,  and  of  Agnes's  strange  friend ;  of  their  life  in  Paris,  and 
their  journey  over  the  Alps,  and  Charles's  keen  enjoyment  of  it; 
and  of  Agnes's  delight  in  listening  to  the  Fribourg  organ. 

Uncle  Jolm  talked  well,  and  the  girls  listened  with  pleasure 
to  what  Eva  called  his  "  traveler's  tales."  She  asked  many  ques- 
tions about  his  friend,  the  doctor,  and  Uncle  John  soon  saw  the 
cloud  all  dispelled  and  her  face  as  sunny  as  ever. 

"By  the  way,  Eva,"  he  said,  "this  is  the  very  first  question 
that  you  have  asked  about  your  knight.  I  am  afraid  that  yoa 
have  lost  your  interest  in  him.  You  have  not  even  asked  if  I 
brought  him  home  with  me." 

"  No,  sir,  because  you  said  in  one  of  your  letters  that  he  would 
not  return  before  the  end  of  the  year." 

"Yes,  but  that  letter  was  written  before  we  heard  of  Ihe  dec- 
laration of  war.  Do  you  suppose  that  he  would  have  remained 
in  Europe  after  that  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  that  he  ought  to  have  done  it,  Uncle  John,  but 
I  do  not  know  how  he  would  feel  and  act." 

"What  do  you  think,  Julia  ?"  he  asked. 

She  colored,  but  there  was  no  evading  the  question,  and  she 
answered,  truthfully: 

"  If  I  have  read  his  character  aright.  Uncle  John,  I  should 
think  that  he  would  certainly  have  returned  home." 

"And  you  are  not  mistaken,  Julia.  I  parted  with  him  at  Rich- 
mond." 

"  Oh  !"  exclaimed  Eva,  "  I  am  so  glad  that  he  has  come  I  I 
shall  be  really  delighted  to  see  him  once  more." 

"  Which  you  will  probably  do  before  long,  Eva,  as  he  is 
coming  to  say  good-by  to  me  on  his  way  to  the  army.  He  has 
gone  to  spend  a  week  or  so  at  home,  and  will  then  join  the  troops 
in  Virginia.  The  very  night  that  he  received  the  news  of  the  fall 
of  Sumter,  he  wrote  to  his  brother  to  raise  a  company  for  him  by 
the  time  he  returned,  the  expense  of  whose  equipment  he  and  I 
are  jointly  to  bear." 

"  When  is  he  coming.  Uncle  John?" 

"  I  do  not  know  exactly  when,  but  just  as  soon  as  possible. 
He  is  very  much  in  earnest,  and  will  not  delay  unnecessarily." 

The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  pleasantly  enough,  and  the 
elastic-hearted  child  forgot  all  the  shadows  that  had  so  clouded 
her  spirit  an  hour  before.  When  she  bade  Uncle  John  good- 
night, she  said: 

"  Will  you  come  to  the  Hall  to-morrow.  Uncle  John  ?  We 
need  you  more  than  ever,  for  it  is  lonely  now." 

"  Yes,  daughter,   I  will   come   to-morrow.     I  expect  to   be 


CAMERON    HALL.  17T 

oftener  at  the  Hall  than  ever,  at  least  for  some  time  to  come, 
until  the  aspect  of  my  bachelor  home  becomes  again  familiar  and 
more  tolerable." 

After  they  were  gone  he  went  back  into  the  parlor  and  looked 
round  upon  its  empty  chairs.  The  porch  and  the  moonlight 
seemed  less  lonely  than  this,  so  he  wheeled  his  arm-chair  into 
the  porch,  and  drawing  a  match,  he  said,  as  he  lighted  a  cigar : 

"This  friend,  at  least,  I  have  access  to  at  all  times  and  under 
all  circumstances.  I  wish  that  Charles  would  come  along :  this 
sudden  relapse  into  solitary  bachelorhood  is  intolerable  !" 

Uncle  John  puffed,  and  dreamed,  and  hoped,  and  feared  all 
alone  in  the  quiet  moonlight;  and  could  his  two  young  friends 
have  looked  into  his  heart  and  have  seen  the  tumult  that  was 
hidden  under  his  calm  exterior,  they  would  have  been  greatly 
amazed,  and  their  astonishment  would  not  have  been  lessened 
to  have  known  that  the  quiet  Grace  Merton  was  the  cause  of 
it  all. 

Uncle  John  had  been  in  early  life  impulsive  almost  to  rash- 
ness ;  but  the  discipline  of  circumstances  and  his  own  studied 
efforts  at  self-control  had  taught  him  to  govern  himself,  so  that 
he  could  generally  rely  upon  his  ability  to  curb  and  restrain  his 
feelings.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  task  would  be  a  harder 
one  at  this  time  than  it  had  been  since  his  youth,  and  he  thought 
that  now,  as  ever,  he  bad  but  to  determine,  and  his  feelings  would 
at  once  yield  to  his  will.  But  for  once  he  had  over-estimated 
his  powers  of  self-control ;  and  when  he  resolved  that  for  the 
present  he  would  lock  up  his  feelings  in  his  own  breast,  and  that 
neither  word,  look,  nor  act  should  betray  them  to  Grace  or  to 
any  one  else,  he  little  dreamed  that  he  was  imposing  upon  him- 
self an  impossible  task.  Had  any  one  predicted  that  he  would 
have  been  overcome  and  carried  away  by  his  feelings,  he  would 
have  spurned  the  idea  as  being  an  impossible  weakness  for  an 
old  man  like  himself,  although  natural  and  probable  for  a  boy 
like  Charles  Beaufort.  Ah,  Uncle  John  I  there  are  some  things 
in  which,  despite  your  gray  hairs  and  experience,  you  are  still  a 
boy,  and  those  who  love  you  best  would  not  have  it  otherwise. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  he  went  to  the  cottage  to 
see  Grace  and  Agnes.  There  was  no  unusual  throb  of  his  heart; 
no,  he  had  reasoned  that  down  last  night,  and  now  he  could  talk 
to  Grace  and  listen  to  her  as  quietly  and  calmly  as  he  had  done 
before  he  suspected  that  Agnes  was  not  the  only  tie  which  drew 
him  there  daily. 

In  the  excitement  of  arrival,  and  during  the  few  minutes  that 
he  was  there  the  evening  before,  he  had  not  observed  the  wan, 
careworn,  wearied  expression  that  was  so  evident  this  morning, 


178  CAMERON    HALL. 

t 

and  which  it  pained  him  to  see.  Grace  Was  sadly  changed  since 
he  had  parted  from  her, — a  change,  too,  which  he  thought  could 
not  altogether  be  accounted  for  by  her  anxiety  and  disappoint- 
ment. He  was  afraid  that  there  was  some  new  cause  of  sorrow, 
for  which  even  the  pleasure  of  her  child's  return  could  not  afford 
compensation. 

The  first  inquiry  was  for  Agnes.  She  was  still  asleep,  and  her 
mother  said  that  she  was  not  sick,  but  she  was  exhausted  with  the 
excitement  of  pleasure. 

Grace  felt  as  she  had  ever  done,  free  and  unreserved  with  Uncle 
John.  To  the  affection  which  had  first  been  awakened  by  kind- 
ness to  and  interest  in  her  afflicted  child,  was  now  added  the  tie 
of  gratitude  which  only  a  mother  could  feel  for  a  kindness  such 
as  he  had  shown.  Like  Uncle  John,  she,  too,  believed  that  Agnes 
was  the  strong  tie  that  bound  him  to  her,  and  that  the  unselfish 
friendship  which  she  had  enjoyed  for  years,  and  which  she  so 
much  valued,  belonged  to  her  rather  as  Agnes's  mother  than  to 
herself  individually.  Altogether  unconscious  of  the  existence  of 
any  other  feelings  toward  her,  she  greeted  Uncle  John  this  morn- 
ing gladly  and  kindly.  They  talked  just  as  they  had  done  for 
years;  and  however  much  she  had  wondered  at  the  unaccountable 
reserve  of  his  letters,  the  moment  that  she  met  him  she  saw  and 
felt  that  he  was  the  same  Uncle  John  of  old,  and  every  feeling  of 
restraint  was  at  once  swept  away.  She  told  him  frankly  how 
very  glad  she  was  to  have  him  at  home  once  more,  how  much 
she  had  missed  his  daily  visits,  and  how  frequently  she  had  felt 
the  need  of  his  kind  and  judicious  advice.  Then  she  spoke  of  her 
disappointment;  and  as  in  that  instant  the  recollection  rushed 
upon  her  that  her  whole  life  had  been  one  long  sorrow,  and  that 
disappointment  in  every  form  and  with  every  aggravation  had 
been  her  constant  discipline,  she  did  wh%t  she  had  never  done 
before;  she  said,  with  a  wearied  though  patient  expression: 

"  But,  Uncle  John,  there  ought  to  be  no  such  feeling  as  disap- 
pointment to  me.  I  have  known  nothing  else  in  my  life,  and 
ought  to  have  learned  by  this  time  never  to  expect  anything  that 
I  greatly  desire." 

It  was  the  uncomplaining  submission  of  her  tone  and  manner, 
rather  than  what  she  said,  that  swept  away  all  Uncle  John's  self- 
imposed  restraint  like  a  barrier  of  sand  before  a  rushing  stream. 
Before  he  thought  what  he  was  doing,  he  had  said: 

*' We  have  both  known  disappointment,  Grace;  but,  God  help- 
ing me,  if  you  will  but  give  me  the  right,  I  will  see  to  it  that  you 
never  know  more  of  it,  if  the  love  and  protection  and  care  of  an 
old  man  can  shield  you  from  it  I  Grace,"  he  added,  hurriedly, 
"  my  heart  is  not  so  old  but  that  it  can  feel  a  fervent  love  for  you  j 


CAMERON     HALL.  179 

and  to  shield  you,  gnard  you,  love  you,  will  be  all  the  happiness 
that  I  will  ask  in  my  old  age  I" 

He  was  answered  by  a  low  cry,  as  with  clasped  hands  and  sup- 
plicating look,  she  exclaimed  : 

"Oh,  Uncle  John,  have  mercy  upon  me,  and  speak  not  such 
another  word  I  Indeed,  indeed  you  know  not  what  you  ask.  Oh, 
God  I  oh,  God  !"  she  said,  almost  wildly,  "  has  it  come  to  this  ? 
Is  there  still  another  disappointment  in  store  for  me,  and  must  I 
thus  lose  the  best  friend  that  my  child  and  I  have  ever  had  ?" 

Uncle  John  was  startled  and  amazed.  All  this  was  so  dif- 
ferent from  anything  that  he  had  ever  seen  in  her  before  ;  the 
wild  words  and  wilder  manner  were  such  a  singular  contrast  to 
her  accustomed  patient  and  gentle  serenity,  that  he  looked  at 
her  for  some  minutes  in  speechless  surprise.  Then,  taking  her 
hand  kindly,  he  said  : 

"  No,  Grace,  while  I  live  you  shall  not  lose  your  best  friend. 
If  I  may  not  be  anything  nearer  to  you,  I  will  still  be  the  same 
Uncle  John;  and  if  I  may  not  enjoy  the  happiness  that  I  crave, 
I  will  try  and  content  myself  with  the  lesser  one,  and  my  life's 
pleasure  shall  still  be  to  do  what  I  can  to  make  you  and  Agnes 
happy.  I  can  do  this,"  he  added,  with  inexpressible  sadness, 
"for  the  discipline  of  my  life,  like  yours,  has  taught  me  to  bear 
disappointment." 

His  words  and  tone  smote  her  to  the  heart,  and  it  required  all 
her  efforts  to  answer  : 

"I  am  not  ungrateful.  Uncle  John,  nor  do  I  carelessly  spurn 
the  love  that  you  have  offered  me.  I  cannot  tell  you  why  I  may 
not  listen  to  such  words;  I  can  only  implore  you  never  again  to 
speak  them,  and  at  the  same  time  beg  you  still  to  be  to  me  the 
friend  that  you  have  ever  been.  God  \nows  that  I  value  your 
friendship  more  than  any  earthly  blessing,  and  if  that  were  taken 
away,  I  should  be  desolate  indeed  1" 

"  It  shall  not  be  taken  away,  Grace.  We  may  not  forget  the 
words  that  I  have  spoken  this  morning,  for  that  is  impossible, 
but  we  may  at  least  agree  that  they  shall  not  affect  our  future  in- 
tercourse ;  that  you  will  regard  me  in  the  same  light  that  you  did 
before  they  were  spoken,  and  will  come  to  me,  as  you  have  long 
done,  for  counsel  and  sympathy  in  all  your  perplexities  and 
troubles." 

"God  bless  you  for  that,  Uncle  John  !"  she  exclaimed ;  "best 
and  most  unselfish  of  men  !  and  may  He  reward  you  for  all  your 
kindness  to  a  desolate  mother  and  a  blind  child  !  I  cannot  talk 
to  you  any  more  now.  Go,  and  come  again  some  time  fo-day  to 
see  Agnes.  When  next  I  meet  you,  you  will  find  me  as  calm  and 
quiet  and  sad  as  you  have  ever  known  me,  and  as  I  must  alwavs 
be."  ^ 


180  CAMERON    HALL. 

Uncle  John  walked  home  dreamily  and  absently.  He  had  not 
yet  sufficiently  recovered  from  his  Surprise  to  think,  nor  could  he 
yet  realize  how  many  hopes  of  happiness  he  had  based  upon 
those  few  words  which  it  required  but  a  moment  to  speak,  a 
moment  to  answer !  He  thought  of  himself  for  the  first  time  as 
he  entered  his  quiet  home,  where  the  eclio  of  his  own  footsteps 
was  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  stillness ;  and  throwing  him- 
self into  a  chair,  he  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh,  as  he  thought  that 
his  hopes  had  yanished  with  the  breath  that  gave  them  utterance. 
He  sat  for  a  long  time  in  a  gloomy  reverie.  A  shadow  was  upon 
the  face  that  was  generally  lighted  up  by  the  cheerful  spirit  and 
the  kind,  unselfish  heart  within.  He  thought  of  the  blight  upon 
his  early  life,  and  its  repetition  now,  and  was  for  a  little  while 
almost  inclined  to  find  fault  with  the  decree  that  had  inexorably 
condemned  a  heart  so  warm  and  afi'ectionate  as  he  knew  his  to 
be  to  a  life  utterly  devoid  of  those  objects  most  calculated  to 
draw  out  its  affections  and  engage  its  sympathies.  He  felt  more 
lonely  than  ever,  for  now  he  knew  that  there  was  no  end  to  it  this 
side  of  the  grave,  and  life  seemed  to  him  as  long  and  dreary  in  the 
prospect  as  if  he  were  standing  on  its  threshold  instead  of  ap- 
proaching its  close. 

The  time  passed  by,  but  he  took  no  note  of  it  until  he  was 
aroused  by  his  servant,  who  came  to  say  that  the  horse  which  he 
had  ordered  to  ride  out  to  the  Hall  had  been  standing  at  the 
gate  two  hours. 

He  intended  to  ride  rapidly  through  the  streets,  for  he  did  not 
want  to  see  anybody;  and  he  even  regretted  the  promise  to  Eva, 
which  obliged  him  to  go  to  the  Hall ;  but  Uncle  John  could  never, 
at  any  time,  pass  rapidly  through  the  streets  of  Hopedale,  much 
less  could  he  hope  to  do  so  now,  when  he  had  only  the  day  before 
returned  after  several  months  absence.  He  was  stopped  almost 
every  minute  to  receive  the  welcome  of  the  men,  women,  and 
children,  who  were  sincerely  glad  to  see  him  once  more  among 
them,  and  he  had  a  kind  word  and  a  cordial  greeting  for  them 
all,  and  none  suspected  that  Uncle  John,  who  was  the  same  out- 
wardly that  he  used  to  be,  now  carried  such  a  heavy  heart.  After 
he  had  passed  the  suburbs,  he  plied  his  whip,  and  riding  rapidly 
forward,  soon  entered  into  the  pleasant  shade  of  a  beautiful 
grove  not  far  from  the  Hall.  Its  quiet  shadow  and  cool  breeze, 
so  refreshing  in  a  hot  June  day,  were  favorable  to  reverie,  and 
letting  the  reins  fall  upon  his  horse's  neck,  he  was  soon  again 
musing  sadly  upon  his  fate.  This  time,  however,  it  did  not  last 
long.     With  a  start  and  an  efi'ort  he  aroused  himself,  saying : 

*'  This  will  never  do  1     I  am  old  Uncle  John  now,  and  surely 
ought  not  to  shrink  under  disappointment,  as  I  did  thirty  years 


CAMERON    HALL.  181 

ago,  when  I  first  learned  what  it  was  !  I  have  wasted  time 
enough  in  useless  repining  and  quarreling  with  my  destiny.  I 
am  older  and  wiser  now,  and  if  I  am  denied  the  pleasures  of  life 
tnyself,  I  must  learn  to  be  contented  to  afford  them  to  others !" 

He  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  a  few  minutes  brought  him  to 
the  old  familiar  Hall,  with  its  young  faces  and  warm  hearts  and 
cordial  welcome ;  and  as  he  walked  in,  a  prisoner  between  the 
girls,  holding  one  by  each  hand,  he  felt  already  that  he  had  been 
ungrateful  in  thinking  his  life  a  joyless  one,  when  he  had  such  an 
asylum  as  this,  where  he  might  find  aS*ection  and  sympathy  in  any 
measure  that  the  most  exacting  heart  could  demand. 

Eva  rallied  him  upon  his  fashionable  hours,  but  he  quietly  and 
good-humoredly  parried  her  questions  as  to  the  cause  of  his  de- 
lay ;  and  if  he  was  a  shade  more  thoughtful  than  usual,  and  less 
disposed  to  teaze  her,  she  did  not  observe  it. 

The  shadow  upon  that  family  circle,  which  they  could  not  alto- 
gether conceal  the  night  before,  was  very  evident  now  to  Uncle 
John.  There  were  lines  of  care  about  Mr.  Cameron's  mouth, 
and  a  cloud  upon  his  brow,  which  he  had  never  seen  there  be- 
fore, and  there  was  in  Julia's  manner  a  sad  listlessness  altogether 
unnatural.  Eva  only  was  the  same;  light-hearted,  frolicsome, 
and  happy,  delighted  to  have  dear  old  Uncle  John  back  again, 
and  expressing  her  pleasure  in  every  look,  act,  and  word. 

Uncle  John  was  not  too  much  engrossed  with  his  own  trouble 
to  be  indifferent  to  that  of  his  friends ;  and  as  he  looked  upon 
Julia's  sad  face,  he  determined  to  find  out  before  he  went  home 
what  it  was,  and  relieve  it  if  he  could.  She  little  dreamed  that 
he  had  already  discovered  what  she  so  faithfully  endeavored  to 
conceal.  Not  an  inconsiderable  part  of  her  trial  was  that  she 
was  shut  out  from  sympathy;  that  she  must  lock  up  her  feelings 
in  her  own  breast  and  seal  her  lips ;  and  not  to  father,  sister,  or 
friend  could  she  consent  to  speak  of  the  traitor  brother  of  whom 
she  thought  by  day  and  by  night.  It  was  the  first  barrier  of 
reserve  that  had  ever  arisen  between  herself  and  Uncle  John  ;  and 
while  she  had  painfully  thought  of  it  before,  she  had  never  realized 
it  until  she  met  him  again  and  felt  that  even  he,  her  own  and  her 
father's  best  friend,  must  hear  of  their  trouble  from  stranger  lips, 
but  never  from  themselves.  And  since  she  might  not  tell  him, 
she  did  not  want  him  to  suspect  how  deeply  she  was  wounded, 
and  she  tried  hard  in  his  presence  to  be  her  usual  self;  but  he 
knew  her  too  well  to  be  deceived  for  a  moment,  and  he  saw 
plainly  that  something  was  wrong,  even  while  he  was  at  a  loss  to 
conjecture  what  it  was. 

In  the  evening,  just  before  sunset,  Eva  said : 

16 


182  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Sister,  I  have  ordered  the  horses  for  us  to  take  a  ride.  I 
want  to  show  Uncle  John  our  large,  beautiful  wheat  fields,  and 
how  many  acres  papa  has  planted  in  corn." 

"  That  ride,  Eva,"  he  replied,  "  I  must  take  another  day.  You 
may  mount  Dixie  and  go  where  you  please,  but  Julia  must  go 
with  me  to  walk  in  the  grove.     I  have  something  to  say  to  her." 

"Now,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered,  laughing,  "it  is  intolerable 
for  you  to  begin  to  show  your  partiality  so  early.  I  did  hope 
that  absence  would  have  taught  you  to  appreciate  me  properly; 
but  if  it  did  not,  and  if  sister  should  still  be  the  favorite,  you 
would,  at  least,  have  learned  not  to  show  it  so  plainly." 

"I  needed  no  absence  to  teach  me  to  value  you,  daughter,"  he 
said  ;  "  nor  do  I  design  to  show  any  great  partiality  to  your  sister 
now.  Some  of  these  days  I  may  have  a  little  private  conversa- 
tion for  you,  too." 

"  Never  mind,"  she  answered,  as  she  sprang  lightly  upon  her 
horse,  "you  may  tell  sister  just  as  many  secrets  as  you  please, 
and  I  will  know  them  all  before  I  go  to  sleep  to-night,  and  Dixie 
and  I  will  have  a  nice  ride  besides." 

So  saying,  she  touched  the  horse  with  her  whip,  and,  with 
Carlo  following,  dashed  down  the  lawn  and  through  the  gate  be- 
fore her  father  had  mounted. 

"  Full  of  life  and  health  and  happiness,"  said  Uncle  John  to 
Julia,  as  they  watched  her,  with  her  curls  flying  in  the  breeze  and 
her  cheeks  glowing  like  roses.  "  May  her  heart  never  be  heavier 
than  it  is  this  moment!" 

They  walked  down  to  the  grove,  whose  lengthened  shadows  had 
anticipated  the  quiet  repose  of  twilight.  Neither  talked  much; 
and,  after  awhile,  coming  to  a  fallen  log  near  the  path,  he  led  her 
to  it,  and  seating  her  upon  it,  took  his  place  beside  her. 

"  My  daughter,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  into  her  eyes,  "  some- 
thing troubles  you,  and  has  troubled  you  all  day;  may  I  not  know 
it,  and  comfort  you  if  I  can,  and  sympathise  with  you  if  I  cannot 
comfort  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  truthfully,  "something  troubles  me, 
and  has  done  so,  not  only  to-day,  but  many  days  and  weeks ;  but 
don't  ask  me  what  it  is.  I  cannot  tell  you,  Uncle  John.  It  is  a 
sorrow  which  I  must  bear  all  alone,  one  which  shuts  me  out  alike 
from  comfort  and  sympathy." 

"  No,  Julia,  that  cannot  be.  Give  me  the  privilege,  and  see  if 
you  are  not  wholly  wrong." 

"No,  Uncle  John,  I  cannot  tell  you." 

She  paused  a  moment ;  the  long  pent-up  feelings  struggled 
for  utterance,  but  she  kept  them  back,  and  only  said,  with  bit- 
terness : 


CAMERON    HALL.  183 

"You  will  learn  it  soon  enough.  Everybody  can  and  will  tell 
you,  except  her  who  feels  it  most,  whom  most  it  galls." 

"Why,  my  daughter,  what  can  you  mean  ?  This  is  more  than 
sorrow,  Julia  ;  it  has  a  keener  sting  than  mere  grief.  Everybody 
knows  it,  yet  nobody  can  sympathize  ;  everybody  is  talking  about 
it,  yet  you  cannot  tell  me  I  I  confess  that  I  do  not  understand 
you." 

There  was  a  few  minutes'  painful  silence.  Julia  bit  her  lips  in 
the  vain  effort  to  crush  her  feehngs,  but  it  would  not  do.  Pres- 
ently she  sprang  up  and  stood  erect  before  him.  Her  cheeks 
burned,  and  she  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  as  she  said : 

"  Uncle  John,  you  shall  not  hear  it  first  from  indifferent  and 
careless  tongues,  who  will  discuss  it  as  they  would  any  other 
piece  of  idle  gossip.  From  a  Cameron's  lips  you  shall  first  hear 
of  a  Cameron's  disgrace  !     Read  this." 

So  saying,  she  drew  from  her  bosom  a  scrap  of  newspaper, 
wrinkled  and  worn,  and  as  she  gave  it  to  him,  she  said  : 

"It  is  the  brand  of  our  disgrace  !  Our  name  is  now  no  longer 
stainless !" 

Uncle  John  read  in  surprise  and  sorrow.  If  he  had  been  a 
stranger  to  her,  there  was  that  in  her  attitude  and  manner  which 
would  have  betrayed  the  keenness  of  the  pang;  but,  knowing  her 
as  he  did,  he  fully  realized  that  she  had  been  touched  where  she 
was  most  sensitive. 

He  drew  her  down  to  her  seat  again,  and  giving  her  back  the 
paper,  held  her  hand  in  silence.  Presently  she  drew  it  away,  and 
said,  hurriedly : 

"I  told  you  so;  I  told  you  that  I  could  have  neither  sympathy 
nor  comfort  I  Even  you,  the  kindest  and  best  of  men,  have  no- 
thing of  either  to  offer  me.  We  are  severed,  now,  even  from 
you." 

"My  dear  daughter,"  he  answered,  earnestly,  "you  ought  to 
know  me  better  than  that.  For  your  brother  I  have  the  most 
profound  pity,  and  for  you  the  most  sincere  sympathy,  and  it 
would  take  much,  very  much  more  than  this,  to  sever  me  from 
you.  But,  indeed,  Julia,  I  think  that  your  feelings  and  notions 
about  this  matter,  while  they  are  natural  and  proper  to  a  certain 
degree,  are,  nevertheless,  in  this  particular  instance,  morbid  and 
exaggerated.  Your  brother  has  done  wrong,  grossly  wrong,  and 
I  tell  you  frankly  that  I  think  he  has  disgraced  himself;  but  the 
disgrace  does  not  and  cannot  extend  to  any  other  member  of  the 
family." 

"Ah  !"  she  answered,  shaking  her  head,  "  he  is  son  and  brother, 
bone  of  our  bone  and  flesh  of  our  flesh,  and  his  conduct  must 
act  not  only  upon  himself,  but  also  reflectively  upon  us.     It  is 


184  CAMERON     HALL. 

true  that  he  has  always  seemed  to  me  more  like  a  stranger  than 
a  brother,  but  my  feelings  do  not  alter  the  facts.  He  is  my  bro- 
ther still,  my  father's  son  !" 

"  He  is  not  identified  with  your  family,  Julia.  Few  have  known 
you  more  intimately  than  myself,  and  yet  the  name  of  George  is 
never  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  rest  of  you.  At  the  age 
when  he  most  needed  restraint  and  control,  he  voluntarily  severed 
all  the  ties  of  home  and  family,  and  has  chosen  to  continue  an 
exile  ever  since.  You,  at  home,  cannot  be  held  responsible  for 
the  views  that  he  may  entertain  or  the  principles  by  which  he  is 
governed,  nor  can  his  actions  possibly  reflect  upon  you.  Another 
thing,  Julia ;  his  conduct  will  not  be  regarded  by  everybody  as 
you  look  upon  it.  There  are  many  people  who  will  sustain  and 
laud  him  for  his  loyalty  to  the  United  States;  and  the  fact  that 
he  is  by  birth  a  Southerner,  so  far  from  branding  him  with  shame, 
will,  in  their  eyes,  render  him  only  the  more  deserving  of  ap- 
plause. It  will  not  be  looked  upon  in  the  same  light  as  if  in  a 
war  with  England  he  should  enrol  himself  with  the  enemy." 

"How  the  world  will  regard  it,  Uncle  John,  is  a  secondary 
consideration,  although  I  would,  of  course,  greatly  prefer  that  he 
and  all  the  rest  of  us  should  stand  fair  and  unblemished  in  the 
eyes  of  men.;  but  I  am  speaking  now  of  the  right,  the  moral  right 
of  the  action.  If  it  is  treason  to  co-operate  with  oue  enemy 
against  your  country,  it  is  with  another.  I  cannot  see  that  it 
makes  the  least  difference  whether  the  enemy  is  an  Englishman 
or  a  Yankee,  and  so  I  think  it  must  be  viewed  by  all  right-minded 
people.  And  since,  however  unjust  it  may  be,  it  is  nevertheless 
true,  that  the  conduct  of  one  member  of  a  family  affects  the  char- 
acter of  the  whole,  it  follows  that  the  stain  of  George's  treason 
must  cling  to  the  rest  of  us.  His  name  is  ours;  his  father  is  our 
father ;  the  mother,  whose  heart  was  broken  by  her  undutiful  son, 
was  our  mother  too.  Ah,  that  mother !  how  often  I  have  needed 
her,  how  often  I  have  longed  to  have  her  back  I  'Sow  I  thank 
God  that  she  sleeps  too  quietly  to  suffer  as  we  do  !  Better,  far 
better,  that  we,  her  children,  should  always  have  needed  her,  al- 
ways have  longed  for  her,  than  that  she  should  have  lived  to  see 
her  first-born  son  a  traitor  I" 

There  was  another  pause.  Uncle  John  saw  that  she  was  right, 
that  she  could  not  be  comforted ;  and,  however  morbid  he  con- 
sidered her  views  and  feelings,  he  found  that  thus  far,  at  least,  they 
had  proved  too  strong  to  be  reached  by  his  arguments.  Pres- 
ently he  said,  abruptly: 

"  My  daughter,  will  you  allow  me  the  privilege  of  very  plain 
speech  ?  Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  find  fault  with  you  in  this 
matter  ?" 


CAMERON    HALL.  185 

"  I  can  never  have  anything  to  forgive  you,  Uncle  John ;  and  as 
to  being  found  fault  with,  it  is  not  pleasant,  but  it  is  sometimes 
necessary;  and  if  I  had  had  more  of  it  in  my  childhood,  I  would 
have  been  the  better  for  it  now." 

"  Then,  Julia,  I  will  say  frankly  that  I  think  you  are  doing 
wrong,  very  wrong,  just  now.  If  you  will  look  into  your  heart, 
you  will  find  that  you  are  nursing  these  morbid  feelings.  I 
would  not  undervalue  your  trial,  for  I  know  that  it  must  be  a 
hard  one  for  such  a  proud  spirit  as  yours  to  bear;  but  at  the 
same  time,  my  child,  you  certainly  exaggerate  it.  The  case 
would  be  very  different  if  it  were  your  father  or  Walter;  then  I 
grant  you  that  in  bitterness  and  keenness  no  sorrow  could  equal 
it;  but  it  is  an  unnatural  sensitiveness  for  you  to  feel  as  you  do 
with  reference  to  George,  who,  if  a  brother,  is  likewise  a  stranger, 
and  made  so  by  his  own  voluntary  act.  And  as  to  your  wearing 
that  little  scrap  of  paper  about  your  person,  I  did  not  think  that 
you,  with  your  sound  judgment  and  correct  notions,  would  do 
such  a  thing.     Tell  me  what  makes  you  do  it?" 

"  I  wear  it  that  I  may  never  forget  that  the  name  which  has 
always  been  my  pride  is  now  linked  to  dishonor.  Oh,  Uncle 
John,  you  do  not,  you  cannot  know  with  what  pride  and  pleas- 
ure I  have  always  thought  of  my  stainless  name  !  how  I  have 
clung  to  it,  and  valued  it  more  than  I  would  acres  rich  with  Cal- 
ifornia gold !  I  loved  the  very  sound  of  Cameron.  To  others 
there  may  be  nothing  musical  in  it,  but  to  me  it  has  always  been 
associated  with  everythicg  that  was  noble  and  generous,  and  far 
removed  from  everything  that  was  mean  and  ignoble  and  contempt- 
ible. Papa  has  taught  me  to  value  it,  for  he  has  often  told  me 
of  his  father,  grandfather,  and  great-grandfather,  honest,  noble, 
high-souled  men.  He  loved  to  talk  of  them,  and  I  loved  to  lis- 
ten, and  to  feel  that  my  name  was  theirs.  God  only  knows  the 
bitterness  of  the  thought  that  henceforth  I  must  despise  it !  In- 
deed, indeed,  my  pride  must  have  been  a  grievous  sin  to  have 
needed  such  a  punishment  I" 

"  Exaggerated  notions,  all,  my  daughter !  While  there  is  a 
living  man  to  know  and  understand  and  appreciate  your  father 
and  his  children,  the  name  of  Cameron  is  not  and  cannot  be 
allied  to  shame  and  contempt.  And  I  think  that  you  are  mis- 
taken, too,  in  imagining  that  you  are  being  punished  for  excessive 
pride.  Thoroughly  to  appreciate,  enjoy,  and  rejoice  in  the  bless- 
ings of  life,  whatever  they  may  be,  cannot  be  a  sin  ;  it  must  rather 
be  a  Christian  duty.  Pride  in  an  unsullied  name  and  family  honor 
cannot  be  wrong,  for  the  Bible  itself  teaches  its  priceless  value  ; 
but  if  it  were,  are  you  doing  anything  to  eradicate  it  when  you 
wear  that  torturing  piece  of  paper  in  your  bosom?     It  seems  to 

IG* 


186  CAMERON     HALL. 

me  more  like  thrusting  the  barb  in  deeper,  than  healing  the 
wound.  Now,  my  child,  throw  that  paper  away.  Be  distressed 
and  mortified,  if  you  will,  at  your  brother's  course,  for  that  is 
natural  and  proper ;  but  do  not  think  that  father,  Julia,  Walter, 
and  Eva  are  disgraced,  for  that  never  will,  never  can  be  !" 

"  Father  I  she  repeated.  Ah,  Uncle  John,  that  is  the  most 
intolerable  thought  of  all  1  It  was  a  crushing  blow  to  him  ;  he 
could  have  borne  anything  else  better.  Never,  never  while  I  live 
can  I  forget  the  tone  of  mingled  sorrow  and  bitterness  with  which, 
as  he  threw  the  fatal  newspaper  to  me,  he  repeated  the  word 
'  disgrace  I  disgrace  I' " 

"Yes,  Julia,  he  is  like  yon,  and  this  thing  will  prey  upon  him 
more  than  it  ought  to  do.  Daughter,"  he  added,  suddenly,  "do 
you  regret  having  spoken  to  me  upon  this  subject  ?  Do  you 
think  that  it  was  overstepping  the  bounds  of  friendship  for  me  to 
have,  as  it  were,  extorted  this  confidence  ?" 

"By  no  means.  Uncle  John.  On  the  contrary,  I  thank  you 
for  having  done  so,  for  indeed  I  have  sorely  felt  the  need  of 
sympathy.  I  never  could  have  persuaded  myself  to  speak  to 
you  voluntarily  upon  such  a  subject,  and  yet  I  thank  you  more 
than  I  can  tell  for  your  words  of  kindness  and  advice." 

"Well,  my  daughter,  if  it  has  been  acceptable  to  you,  perhaps 
it  might  be  to  your  father  also.  Suppose  that  I  talk  to  him 
freely  as  I  have  done  to  you,  and  give  him  the  opportunity  which, 
like  you,  he  will  never  seek  himself,  of  unburdening  his  heart  to 
his  old  friend."  • 

"No,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered,  sadly,  "it  is  best  not. 
Papa's  is  a  proud  spirit;  and  while  he  would  appreciate  and 
value  your  sympathy,  it  would  yet  be  more  than  counterbalanced 
by  the  galling  thought  of  its  cause.  If  anybody  could  speak  to 
papa,  I  could;  and  yet,  although  I  have  carefully  watched  my  op- 
portunity, I  have  never  yet  seen  him  when  I  thought  that  an 
allusion  to  our  common  sorrow  would  be  anything  but  an  aggra- 
vation of  its  bitterness.  Poor  papa  I  It  is  a  grievous  burden, 
but  he  prefers  to  bear  it  alone." 

They  now  returned  home ;  and  as  they  walked  along.  Uncle 
John  saw  Julia  quietly  withdraw  the  piece  of  newspaper  from 
her  bosom  and  tear  it  into  fragments,  which  she  dropped  at 
intervals  along  the  path.  She  made  no  allusion  to  the  act,  but 
said : 

"  I  will  try,  Uncle  John,  and  get  rid  of  these  notions  and  feel- 
ings if  they  are  wrong,  but  I  am  afraid  that  it  will  take  me  some 
time  to  do  it,  for  you  know  that  when  feelings  or  principles  once 
get  a  firm  foothold  in  my  heart  they  are  very  difficult  to  eradi- 
cate.    It  is  this  which  makes  me  think  earnestly  before  adopting 


CAMERON    HALL.  18T 

an  opinion,  for  if  I  do  not  succeed  in  getting  the  right  one  at 
first,  it  is  a  hard  matter  to  root  it  out  and  supplant  it  with 
another." 

"  It  is  this  thoughtfulness  and  anxiety  to  find  out  the  right 
which  make  not  only  a  beautiful,  but  a  most  important  compen- 
sation in  your  character,  Julia.  If  your  judgments  were  as  rash 
and  headlong  as  your  notions  and  feelings  are  strongly  rooted, 
the  result  would  be  a  self-opiniated  obstinacy  as  ruinous  as  it  is 
unlovely;  but  as  it  is,  your  thoughtfulness  makes  your  decisions 
generally  correct,  and  when  they  are  not,  your  anxiety  to  do  right 
makes  you  willing  at  any  cost  to  alter  them." 

"When  they  reached  the  gate,  Eva  came  running  down  the  lawn 
to  meet  them. 

"  What  a  long  secret  you  must  have  had  to  tell,  Uncle  John  !" 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  did  not  know  that  an  old  man  like  you  had 
any  secrets.  I  thought  that  you  had  long  ago  left  them  to  the 
young  and  romantic." 

"Not  by  any  means,  Eva.  "When  I  make  you  my  confidante, 
you  will  find  that  even  old  Uncle  John  can  have  secrets  as 
well  as  any  sentimental  lassie  or  boy-beau  of  your  acquaint- 
ance." 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir,  that  I  can  never  aspire  to  the  honor  of  being 
your  confidante,  for  I  am  neither  thoughtful  nor  prudent  nor 
womanly  enough;  you  require  sister  for  that." 

"  I  have  required  her  this  time,  Eva,  but  it  does  not  follow 
that  next  time  I  will  not  demand  you.  But  see,  it  is  almost  dark; 
go  quickly  and  order  my  horse.  I  ought  to  have  been  at  home 
by  this  time." 

"  No,  Uncle  John,  not  yet;  not  until  after  tea.  We  cannot  let 
you  go  yet." 

Julia  warmly  echoed  the  negative,  and  Uncle  John  conseated 
to  stay. 

"I  must  go  soon  after  tea,  girls,"  he  said,  "for  I  promised  to 
see  Agnes  to-day.  She  was  asleep  when  I  was  there  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  cannot  go  all  day  without  seeing  her." 

Julia  was  more  like  her  former  self  than  she  had  been  all  day, 
and  Uncle  John  hoped  that  his  words  of  advice  and  reproof  had 
already  produced  some  effect.  When  he  was  going  away,  he 
found  opportunity  to  say : 

"  Think,  daughter,  of  what  I  have  said  to  you.  I  do  not  ask 
you  to  accept  it  unconditionally  as  right,  but  to  think  of  it,  and 
see  if  your  own  judgment  does  not  indorse  it." 

On  his  way  home  he  stopped  at  the  cottage.  Agnes  was  playr 
ing  as  usual,  but  there  was  no  light  in  the  parlor.  Her  mother 
was  sitting  by  the  window,'in  the  moonlight,  with  her  head  lean- 


188  CAMERON    HALL. 

ing  upon  her  hand.  She  quickly  detected  his  step  upon  the 
pavement,  and  as  he  reached  the  door  he  heard  the  quiet  foot- 
fall, and  saw  the  flutter  of  her  dress  as  she  hastily  left  the  parlor. 
He  went  in,  but  before  he  had  time  to  speak,  the  glad  arms  were 
stretched  out  to  welcome  him,  and  Agnes  said  : 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Uncle  John  I  It  is  so  strange  to  be 
all  day  long  without  having  seen  you.  I  have  missed  you  very 
much,  even  though  I  have  been  with  mother." 

"I  did  not  expect,  Agnes,  that  you  would  think  of  me  once 
to-day.  I  thought  that  mother,  organ,  home,  would  quite  611  up 
your  heart  at  present,  and  that  there  would  be  no  room  just  now 
for  me." 

"  There  will  always  be  room  for  you,  Uncle  John,  and  your 
place  there  nobody  else  shall  ever  fill." 

"Are  you  glad  to  be  at  home,  daughter  ?  Is  it  the  same  old 
home  to  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir !  the  same  dear  old  home,  and  the  same  dear  old 
organ,  but " 

"  But  what,  Agnes  ?" 

"  But  I  cannot  make  it  sound  like  the  Fribourg  organ.  I  have 
been  thinking  all  the  way  home  how  beautifully  I  could  play  now, 
for  now  I  know  what  real  organ  music  is  ;  but,  Uncle  John,  it  is 
no  use  to  try;   I  cannot  do  it." 

"I  should  think  not,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "Why,  Agnes, 
you  are  the  most  ambitious  young  performer  that  I  ever  knew. 
You  really  did  not  expect,  child,  to  equal  that  performance,  in 
which  both  organ  and  organist  are  the  wonder  and  admiration 
of  a  continent,  did  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  expected  it.  Uncle  John ;  I  only  hoped 
that  I  would  be  able  to  make  such  music  as  he  did,  for  then  I 
should  be  so  very,  very  happy." 

She  was  sitting  in  the  shadow,  so  that  he  could  not  see  her 
face,  but  he  detected  disappointment  in  her  voice,  and  he  said : 

"Agnes,  this  will  not  do  ;  it  is  wrong.  I  took  you  to  Fri- 
bourg to  give  you  pleasure,  and  that  I  thought  you  would  both 
enjoy  at  the  time  and  remember  gratefully  all  your  life.  If,  on 
the  contrary,  it  makes  you  dissatisfied  with  your  own  organ  and 
your  own  music,  I  shall  always  regret  that  you  went  there.  Turn 
round  now  upon  your  seat  and  play  for  me ;  I  want  to  see  if  you 
have  forgotten  how  to  make  the  sweet  music  that  I  used  to  love 
before  we  went  away." 

She  played  for  him,  and  afterward  he  thanked  her,  saying : 

"I  am  more  easily  satisfied  and  more  grateful  than  you  are, 
Agnes,  nor  has  the  wonderful  mus[c  of  the  Fribourg  organ 
spoiled  me.     To  my  ear  and  heart  you  play  just  as  sweetly  as 


CAMERON    HALL.  189 

ever,  and  from  you  and  your  organ  I  expect  to  derive  much 
pleasure  and  comfort  in  my  lonely  life." 

"Are  you  lonely,  Uncle  John  ?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes,  my  daughter,  very  !  You  don't  know  how  much  I  miss 
you,  especially  at  the  table.  It  looks  very  solitary  without  you 
and  Dr.  Charles." 

"You  miss  me,  Uncle  John,  and  I  miss  you.  Wouldn't  it  be 
better  for  us  all  to  live  together  ?  Why  can't  we  do  it  ?"  she 
asked,  innocently. 

Uncle  John  heaved  a  sigh,  and  answered  : 

"That  cannot  be,  my  daughter.  We  must  be  contented  to  live 
as  we  are,  only  I  expect  to  come  every  day,  and  perhaps  oftener 
if  I  am  very  lonely,  to  listen  to  your  music.  You  will  always  be 
willing  to  play  for  me,  my  daughter,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Not  willing  only,  but  glad,  very  glad,  Uncle  John,  to  do 
something  for  you.  I  wish,  though,  that  it  could  be  something 
else  besides  playing  the  organ,  for  that  seems  only  like  pleasing 
myself." 

"  So  much  the  better,  Agnes,  for  if  it  pleases  both  it  will  be  a 
double  pleasure." 

Then  he  talked  to  her  about  the  Hall,  and  her  friends,  and 
their  anxiety  to  see  her.  He  lingered  a  little  while  after  he  rose 
to  go,  hoping,  though  he  scarcely  knew  why,  that  Grace  would 
come  back,  but  she  did  not,  and  after  awhile  he  kissed  Agnes 
and  went  away. 


CHAPTER  XYI. 


The  days  passed  by,  and  everybody,  men,  women,  and  children, 
talked  and  thought  only  of  war.  The  first  week  in  July  was  gone, 
and  Uncle  John  was  sitting  in  his  library  late  one  afternoon, 
writing  to  Charles  Beaufort,  when  a  young  soldier,  in  Confede- 
rate gray,  traveling-bag  in  hand,  opened  the  gate  and  walked 
up  to  the  house.  Through  the  open  window  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  figure  sitting  at  the  table,  and  he  paused  a  moment  and 
looked  at  it  attentively.  A  light,  quick  step  upon  the  threshold, 
followed  instantly  by  a  familiar  voice,  caused  the  writer  to  look 
up,  and  Uncle  John  saw  Charles  Beaufort  standing  before 
him. 

"  Welcome,  my  dear  boy !"  he  exclaimed,  "  a  thousand  times 
welcome  !     I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you.     My 


190  CAMERON    HALL. 

thonghts  were  full  of  you  this  moment,  and  I  was  pleading,  with 
all  the  eloquence  that  I  could  muster,  that  you  would  hasten 
your  arrangements  and  give  me  as  much  time  as  possible  before 
joining  the  army." 

"A  very  unnecessary  pleading,  Uncle  John.  You  might  have 
known  that  it  was  what  I  would  certainly  do,  without  the  ask- 
ing." 

"I  am  afraid,  Charles,"  he  said,  still  holding  his  hand,  "that 
I  am  growing  selfish  and  exacting  in  my  old  age.  I  confess  that 
since  I  parted  with  you  I  have  often  thought  of  William  Beau- 
fort's home,  with  its  large  family  circle,  and  coveted  one  of  the 
number,  and  felt  not  only  that  he  ought  to  be  spared  to  me,  but 
that  I  had  the  best  right  to  him.  I  have  thought,  grudgingly, 
my  boy,  of  your  three  weeks  at  home,  your  few  days  with  me. 
And  now  tell  me,  before  you  sit  down,  how  long  I  may  have  you 
with  me.  I  don't  want  to  drift  quietly  along  for  two  or  three 
days,  and  all  at  once  have  you  say :  '  Uncle  John,  this  is  the 
last  dinner  or  the  last  tea  that  we  will  enjoy  together  ;  to-morrow 
I  must  go.'" 

*'  I  will  probably  stay — but  see.  Uncle  John,  there  are  ladies 
coming  in  I     I  am  covered  with  dust;  which  way  must  I " 

The  question  and  the  answer  were  alike  cut  short  by  Eva, 
who  came  bounding  in,  as  she  always  did.  She  ran  into  the  room, 
exclaiming  : 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John,  what  do  you  think  I  sister  is  going " 

She  had  almost  reached  Charles  Beaufort  before  she  discovered 
that  there  was  anybody  in  the  room  except  Uncle  John  ;  then, 
perceiving  a  stranger  there,  she  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of 
her  sentence,  and  stood  confused  and  silent. 

Uncle  John  at  once  came  to  the  rescue,  and  taking  her  hand, 
said,  smiling : 

"Before  I  think  what  sister  is  going  to  do,  let  me  tell  you 
something.  This  is  Dr.  Beaufort,  your  old  acquaintance  of  the 
Springs;  and  this,  Charles,  is  Miss  Eva  Cameron,  your  former 
partner  at  the  bowling-alley,  and  companion  in  your  mountain 
rambles. " 

On  the  part  of  the  young  man  there  was  a  quiet  and  easy  re- 
cognition; but  Eva  had  been  so  suddenly  and  entirely  thrown  off 
her  guard  that  she  could  not  readily  recover  herself,  and  she  shyly 
and  blushingly  offered  her  hand.  By  this  time,  Julia,  who  was 
following  quietly  and  sOberly  behind,  came  in.  She  was  no  less 
astonished  than  her  sister  to  find  herself  in  the  presence  of  a 
stranger ;  but  a  hasty  glance  satisfied  her  that  he  was  indeed  a 
stranger,  and  so,  without  looking  at  him,  she  walked  up  to  Uncle 
John  and  greeted  him  as  usual.     It  was  now  Charles's  turn  to 


CAMERON    HALL.  191 

« 

be  embarrassed.  One  of  his  pleasant  anticipations  in  coming  to 
Hopedale  was  the  renewal  of  his  acquaintance  with  her,  and  the 
scarcely  acknowledged  hope,  that  even  through  her  reserved  and 
undemonstrative  manner  he  might  still  find  something  to  con- 
strue into  the  belief  that  she  was  not  altogether  indifferent  to 
him.  In  this,  their  first  meeting,  there  was  certainly  little  to 
encourage  such  a  hope,  for  she  met  him  as  a  stranger.  As  she 
came  into  the  room  he  sprang  forward  to  meet  her;  but  the  in- 
different glance  with  which  she  passed  him  to  speak  to  Uncle 
John,  checked  the  advancing  footstep  and  the  extended  hand, 
and  he  stood  hesitating  and  confused.  Uncle  John  took  it  in 
at  a  glance,  and  hastened  to  say,  as  he  led  Julia  up  to  him; 

"Julia,  this  is  Dr.  Beaufort." 

A  slight  flush  mantled  her  cheek  as  she  gave  him  her  hand, 
and  said,  timidly: 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,  Dr.  Beaufort.  I  did  not  recognize 
you  when  I  first  came  in." 

"Am  I  so  much  changed  in  two  years.  Miss  Cameron  ?" 
^  "No,  sir.     I  should  have  recognized  you  at  once  under  other 
circumstances.     The  unexpectedness  of  our  meeting  and  your 
altered  dress  must  plead  my  excuse." 

The  conversation  was  an  effort,  for  they  all  felt  embarrassed, 
and  the  attempt  to  conceal  it  was  wholly  unsuccessful.  After  a 
few  commonplace  remarks,  there  was  an  awkward  silence,  which 
Uncle  John  broke  by  saying,  abruptly : 

^  "I  must  have  the  answer  to  my  question,  Charles,  which  these 
girls  interrupted.     How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  with  me  ?" 

"I  have  allowed  myself  until  Monday,  sir;  but  I  am  almost 
afraid  to  linger  even  so  long  on  the  way.  All  the  signs  of  the 
times  foretell  an  early  engagement,  and  my  duty  now  is  in 
camp." 

"Until  Monday  !"  repeated  Uncle  John.  "  This  is  Thursday 
evening ;  that  gives  me  only  three  days,— a  short  time,  Charles, 
on  the  eve  of  what  may  be  a  long  separation." 

"  Yes,  sir,  so  it  is,  and  I  would  gladly  make  it  longer  if  I  could ; 
but  I  have  been  very  restless  for  ten  days,  and  anxious  to  get  on, 
for  I  think  that  every  man  now  ought  to  be  in  camp." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,  Charles,  except  regret  that  thus  it 
must  be.  You  are  right;  your  duty  now  is  elsewhere.  Where 
is  your  company?  gone  on  toward  Manassas  Junction  ?" 

"  My  brother  has,  sir ;  it  went  ten  days  ago.     I  have  no  com- 


pany " 


"  You  have  no  company  I"  he  exclaimed,  in  surprise.  "  I 
thought  that  the  bargain  was  that  you  and  I  were  to  equip  a 
company,  of  which  you  were  to  be  captain." 


192  CAMERON    HALL. 

"I  have  relinquished  my  comraission  in  favor  of  my  brother, 
and  I  took  the  liberty  of  transferring  to  him  the  offer  that  you 
made  me.     You  have  no  objection,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Xone  in  the  world ;  but  I  must  confess  that  I  feel  curious  to 
know  the  cause  of  this  sudden  and  complete  change  in  your 
plans.  When  I  parted  with  you,  I  thought  that  your  head  was 
full  of  dreams  of  military  success  and  promotion.  Your  uniform 
is  not  that  of  a  private  ;  what  are  you,  and  why  are  you  not 
captain  ?" 

"  I  have  accepted  the  post  of  regimental  surgeon,  Uncle 
John." 

"  Wliy  did  you  do  it,  Charles  ?" 

He  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  answered : 

"  When  I  went  home,  I  discussed  the  matter  with  my  father 
and  mother,  and  we  decided  that  I  would  be  more  useful  in  the 
capacity  of  surgeon  than  in  that  of  captain.  My  recent  oppor-- 
tunities  in  Paris  have  probably  fitted  me  better  for  that  post  than 
many  who  will  occupy  it,  and  it  was  agreed  that  there  would  be 
a  greater  dearth  of  efficient  surgeons  than  of  efficient  cap- 
tains." 

"But,  Charles,  I  know  that  you  will  not  be  satisfied  with  this 
alteration." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  will  be  satisfied,  though,  if  my  inclinations  alone 
were  to  be  consulted,  it  is  not  what  I  would  prefer.  In  the  first 
place,  I  have  a  natural  repugnance  to  surgery,  and  my  study  of 
it  in  Paris  was  rather  with  the  view  of  having  a  complete  medi- 
cal education,  than  with  the  expectation  of  practicing  that  branch 
of  the  profession.  Cutting  and  sawing  human  flesh  and  bones  is 
extremely  repulsive  to  me,  and  the  skill  and  beauty  of  an  opera- 
tion could  never  compensate  me  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  feeling 
necessary  to  perform  it.  But,  besides  this,  I  had  another  objec- 
tion ;  my  present  position  shuts  me  out  from  the  gratification  of 
all  military  ambition.  The  country-maid,  with  her  milk-pail," 
he  added,  smiling,  "may  have  her  counterpart  even  in  an  army 
of  patriots  ;  and  I  confess  that,  before  I  was  even  a  captain,  I  had 
the  brightest  visions  of  the  stars  of  a  brigadier,  nay,  even  of  a 
major-general.  Now  I  will  surrender  all  such  dreams,  and  be 
content  to  be  plain  surgeon,  with  no  hope  of  promotion,  and  no 
record  of  gallant  deeds  and  superhuman  courage  to  startle  ray 
friends  and  to  gratify  myself.  However,  if  I  can  save  the  limb 
of  one  gallant  fellow,  or  relieve  the  sufferings  of  one  mangled 
soldier,  perhaps  I  will  feel  repaid  for  the  loss  of  the  brigadier's 
stars.     My  mother  thought  I  would." 

Julia  looked  up  in  silence  at  him,  with  her  face  beaming  ap- 
proval in  every  feature.     She  was  quite  unconscious  that  she  did 


CAMERON     HALL.  193 

t 

SO,  and  she  blushed  crimson  as  her  eye  met  his.  He  needed  no 
words  to  interpret  that  look  of  approbation,  and  the  thrill  of 
pleasure  with  which  he  read  it  was  already  no  small  compensation 
for  the  loss  of  the  coveted  stars. 

She  herself  was  so  confused  that  the  only  thing  that  suggested 
itself  was  to  effect  a  speedy  retreat,  and  so  she  arose  to  go. 
Uncle  John,  seconded  by  Dr.  Beaufort,  urged  them  to  stay,  and 
promised  to  drive  them  home  by  moonlight,  but  Julia  would  not 
consent. 

As  they  went  out  to  the  carriage.  Uncle  John  drew  Eva's  arm 
within  his,  and  whispered  : 

"  What  has  become  of  your  tongue,  Eva  ?  I  never  knew  it  to 
be  so  long  silent  before." 

"  The  truth  is,  Uncle  John,"  she  replied,  laughing,  "  that  I  was 
struck  dumb  with  amazement  when  I  walked  in  so  unexpectedly 
upon  that  nice  suit  of  gray  buttoned  up  to  the  throat  with  the 
brass  buttons.  I  have  not  recovered  from  the  stupefying  effects 
yet." 

"I  hope.  Miss  Cameron,"  said  Dr.  Beaufort  to  Julia,  "that 
you  will  allow  me  the  privilege  of  renewing  our  acquaintance, 
begun  at  the  Springs.  A  renewal  of  those  happy  days  of  pleas- 
ant society  and  luxurious  idleness  will  be  a  pleasant  memory  to 
take  with  me  into  my  life  of  privation  and  toil." 

She  only  replied : 

"It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  do  so.  Dr.  Beaufort." 

"  Then  you  will  allow  me  to  come  and  see  you.  It  will  be 
pleasant  for  us — pleasant  for  me,  I  mean,  to  recall  with  you  the 
days  of  happiness." 

She  answered  truthfully  and  involuntarily : 

"It  will  be  pleasant  to  both,  sir." 

A  moment  afterward,  how  gladly  she  would  have  recalled  her 
words,  as  the  thought  of  her  brother  rushed  upon  her  mind. 
She  could  not  speak  another  word.  Her  face  and  neck  were  in- 
stantly dyed  with  a  deep  blush,  and  he  could  only  wonder  in 
silence  what  there  was  in  his  words  or  her  own  to  embarrass  her 
so  painfully. 

He  thanked  her  for  the  permission  which  she  had  implied 
rather  than  given,  and  promised  to  avail  himself  of  it  the  next 
day. 

They  got  into  the  carriage,  and  as  soon  as  they  had  driven  off, 
Julia  was  aroused  by  Eva's  exclamation  : 

"I  declare,  sister,  that  you  are  the  most  provoking  person  that 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life  I  Why  on  earth  didn't  you  stay  to  tea,  as 
you  were  asked  to  do  ?  I  was  just  getting  over  my  confusion 
and  becoming  myself  again,  and  we  could  have  had  a  nice  even- 

rr 


194  CAMERON    HALL. 

in^  with  our  old  acquaintance  of  the  Springs,  and  a  Confederate 
officer  besides.     Why  didn't  you  stay  ?" 

"  Papa  would  not  have  known  where  we  were,  Eva,  and  might 
have  been  anxious  about  us,"  she  answered,  evasively. 

"  That  excuse  won't  do  ;  it  is  manufactured  for  the  occasion. 
Papa  might  perhaps  be  anxious  about  me,  the  hair-brained 
scapegrace  of  the  family,  but  he  knows  full  well  that  if  I  am  in 
your  keeping,  I  am  both  safe  and  in  a  proper  place.  So  try 
again,  sister  ;  why  wouldn't  you  stay  ?" 

"Because  I  thought  it  would  be  better  to  come  away." 

"Which  means  that  you  thought  it  would  be  more  proper. 
Your  propriety  will  be  the  death  of  me  yet,  sister,"  she  said, 
laughing. 

Julia  could  not  help  laughing  too,  as  she  answered : 

"And  yet,  Eva,  my  propriety  is  generally  with  you  an  infer- 
ence rather  than  the  result  of  ray  words  and  actions.  I  have 
not  said  that  I  thought  it  was  proper  to  come  away,  and  would 
have  been  improper  to  stay,  have  I  ?" 

"No,  not  in  so  many  words,  but  I  know  well  enough  that  this 
is  what  you  meant.  For  my  part,  I  cannot  see  that  there  would 
have  been  the  slightest  objecti()n  to  our  having  remained.  I  am 
very  sure  that  if  papa  had  been  tliere  he  would  have  stayed." 

"  That  would  have  altered  the  case,  Eva.  I  think  that  we  did 
right,  and  that  if  you  ask  papa  he  will  say  so." 

"  Of  course  he  will,  for  you  know  that  he  and  Uncle  John  are 
leagued  together  to  indorse  your  decision  in  everything." 

"No,  not  when  that  decision  is  wrong.  You  would  do  them 
great  injustice  if  you  really  thought  so,  but  you  do  not  believe 
any  such  thing.     You  are  only  talking  now." 

"I  am  only  wishing,"  she  said,  wearily,  "that  I  could  have 
spent  a  cheerful,  pleasant  evening  with  Uncle  John  and  Dr. 
Beaufort.  It  is  so  lonely  at  the  Hall  now.  Papa  is  sad,  and 
Walter  is  gone,  and  you  are  more  sober  than  you  used  to  be. 
Only  Carlo  and  Dixie  and  I  are  unchanged.  Even  Rebel  has 
lost  his  spirits.  You  keep  him  shut  up  so  much  now,  and  never 
ride  him,  so  that,  like  yourself,  he  too  begins  to  look  depressed.'^ 

"Yes,"  answered  Julia,  sadly,  "it  is  not  so  bright  and  cheerful 
as  it  once  was;  but  for  all  that,  Eva,  it  is  home  still.  I  only  wish 
that  we  may  always  have  it." 

"A  very  unnecessary  wish,  sister.  Of  course  we  will  always 
have  it,  until  we  choose  to  take  another.  Some  of  these  days, 
when  we  are  married  and  gone,  won't  the  old  Hall  be  lonely 
then  ?" 

"  Whenever  that  catastrophe  happens  to  you,  Eva,"  slie  re- 
plied, with  a  sad  smile,  "  it  will  be  lonely  enough  for  papa  and 


CAMERON    HALL.  195 

me,  for  we  shall  sorely  miss  your  ringing  laugh  and  cheerful 
voice  ;  but  as  far  as  regards  myself,  I  never  expect  to  have  any 
other  home.     I  expect  to  live  and  die  at  the  old  Hall." 

"  You  would  expect,  then,  to  reverse  the  usual  order  of  things. 
Gentlemen  generally  take  their  wives  to  their  homes,  instead  of 
allowing  themselves  to  be  taken  to  those  of  their  wives." 

"  But  suppose  that  I  am  not  any  wife  at  all,  Eva  ?  Suppose 
that  I  live  aid  die  at  the  Hall  as  plain  Julia  Cameron  ?" 

"  Oh,  sister,"  she  exclaimed,  **  anything  else  but  that !  What- 
ever else  you  may  be,  don't  be  an  old  maid.  You  are  a  very  tol- 
erable sister  just  now,  and  papa  and  Walter  and  I  cannot  get 
along  at  all  without  you;  but,  indeed,  I  do  think  that  old  Came- 
ron Hall,  made  quieter  than  ever  by  having,  for  its  presiding 
genius,  prim,  stiff,  starched  Miss  Julia  Cameron,  aged  fifty,  would 
be  absolutely  unbearable.     Oh  no,  sister,  I  cannot  stand  that !" 

"You  have  drawn  a  melancholy  picture,  Eva,"  answered  Julia, 
smiling  ;  "  but,  distasteful  as  it  is,  I  am  afraid  that  it  will  be  your 
doom  to  endure  the  reality." 

"  You  are  surely  not  in  earnest,  sister  ?" 

"  Yes,  Eva,  quite  in  earnest.  I  expect  to  be  an  old  maid,  but 
I  shall  try  very  hard  not  to  be  the  dried-up  hideous  skeleton  that 
your  fancy  has  pictured.  I  am  going  to  try  to  be  genial  and 
pleasant  and  unselfish,  making  myself  useful  and  necessary  to  the 
comfort  of  others,  and  striving  to  keep  out  of  everybody's  way." 

"But,  sister,  what  made  you  resolve  to  be  an  old  maid  ?" 

"  I  have  made  no  resolution  upon  the  subject,  for  I  think  this 
is  unwise,  and  such  resolutions  are  more  frequently  broken  than 
kept.     I  only  think  it  probable." 

"  But  why  do  you  think  it  probable,  sister  ?"  persisted  Eva. 
"I  know  one  thing,  and  that  is,  that  if  you  never  marry,  some- 
body will  lose  one  of  the  best  wives  in  the  world." 

Julia  smiled  a  sad  smile,  and  sighed.  The  old  morbid  feeling 
was  still  there.  Uncle  John's  reasoning,  although  it  might  be  in- 
dorsed by  her  own  sober  judgment,  had  not  yet  been  able  to  erad- 
icate these  torturing  fancies ;  and  Eva's  conversation,  which  she 
designed  for  amusement,  was  in  reality  anything  else  to  Julia. 
She  thought  of  the  kind  of  man  who  could  make  her  happy,  who 
could  s'vvay  with  entire  control  the  deepest  affections  of  her  heart. 
She  thought  of  her  ideal,  noble,  high-toned,  the  soul  of  honor,  a 
true  man,  and  the  sigh  was  drawn  forth  by  the  thought  that  such 
a  one  could  never  consent  to  link  his  destiny  with  George  Came- 
ron's sister. 

Again  the  pertinacious  "  Why  ?"  was  repeated,  and  again  she 
sighed  and  thought,  but  answered  nothing.  Presently,  with  an 
effort,  she  aroused  herself,  and  said  with  forced  cheerfulness : 


196  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Never  mind,  Eva.  This  may  be  only  an  idle  fancy  of  mine, 
after  all.  Perhaps  you  may  yet  see  me  one  of  these  days  a 
plump,  practical,  good-natured  Mrs.  Somebody,  who  has  the 
freshest  butter,  and  the  fattest  chickens,  and  the  earliest  vege- 
tables in  all  the  conntry,  and  who,  when  her  romantic  sister  visits 
her,  will  take  it  for  granted  that  she  needs  something  more  sub- 
stantial than  moonlight  and  sentiment  to  sustain  her,  and  will  ac- 
cordingly feed  her  upon  the  richest  dainties." 

"I  declare,"  said  Eva,  "  it  would  be  too  bad  for  yon  to  persist 
in  being  an  old  maid.  You  are  already  a  good  housekeeper; 
think  what  a  splendid  one  you  will  be  when  you  get  to  be  forty 
years  old  I" 

"  Why,  Eva,  surely  that  is  not  you  who  are  talking  now ! 
That  is  being  more  matter-of-fact  than  even  myself  Even  I, 
practical  as  I  am,  do  not  think  that,  to  be  a  good  wife,  a  woman 
needs  only  to  be  a  good  housekeeper." 

"No,  not  exactly,  sister;  and  yet  I  am  only  echoing  the  sen- 
timent of  my  teacher.  You  yourself  have  taught  me,  and  papa 
and  Uncle  John  have  asserted,  that  sentiment  and  romance  and 
high-strung  fancies  will  not  make  home  happy;  but  it  needs,  as 
well,  tidy  rooms,  comfortable  fires,  warm  slippers,  and,  above 
all,  that  nameless  air  of  peace  and  serenity  which  belongs  alike 
to  the  word  and  the  reality  of  home,  and  without  which  it  never 
can  be  home  at  all." 

"You  are  right,  now,  Eva;  you  have  drawn  now  a  true  pic- 
ture of  home ;  and  while  I  think  that  the  housekeeping  depart- 
ment is  neither  the  whole  nor  the  most  important  part  of  home, 
yet  I  believe  that  it  is  a  necessary  element,  without  which  it  is 
radically  and  hopelessly  defective.  Loving  words  and  protesta- 
tions of  aflfection,  which  cost  nothing  more  than  the  breath  which 
utters  them,  can  never  be  considered  by  a  husband  an  equivalent 
for  that  thoughtful  care  which  provides  for  his  comfort  in  little 
things,  which  never  loses  sight  of  his  wishes  and  tastes,  and  shows 
afifection  by  making  his  home  a  pleasant,  sheltering  refuge  from 
the  cares  and  perplexities  and  wearing  friction  of  his  contest 
with  the  world." 

When  they  reached  home,  Eva  told  her  father  of  their  unex- 
pected meeting  with  their  former  acquaintance,  his  handsome  ap- 
pearance and  soldierly  bearing,  and  concluded  with  a  general 
eulogium  upon  the  Confederate  uniform. 

Time  was  when  he  would  have  shown  himself  interested,  and 
would  have  asked  many  questions;  but  of  late  he  had  generally 
listened  to  her  gay  chatting  in  silence,  and  she  was  now  growing 
accustomed  to  it.  When  she  had  quite  finished,  and  paused,  as 
if  for  a  reply,  or  for  some  recognition  that  she  had  been  talking, 


CAMERON    HALL.  197 

Mr.»  Cameron   felt   constrained   to   say  something,  and    merely 
asked : 

"  How  long  will  Dr.  Beaufort  stay  with  Uncle  John,  Eva  ?" 

"  Until  Monday,  papa.    Won't  you  be  glad  to  see  him  ?    You 
used  to  like  him  so  much  at  the  Springs." 

''Yes — no — "  he  replied,  and  added,  sadly  and  moodily,  "I 
don't  care  to  see  anybody  now." 

To  his  younger  daughter  this  was  inexplicable,  but  Julia  un- 
derstood it  all.  From  the  stand-point  of  her  youth  and  inexpe- 
rience, and  with  the  buoyant  temperament  which  readily  re- 
bounded from  every  kind  of  sorrow,  Eva  had,  from  the  first, 
heard  of  her  brother's  disgrace  as  she  would  of  a  stranger's. 
She  did  not  recollect  him,  had  never  regarded  him  as  a  brother, 
indeed,  had  very  rarely  ever  thought  of  him  at  all ;  and  after  the 
first  surprise  that  any  man  could  so  dishonor  the  name  of  Cam- 
eron, she  had  dismissed  the  subject  from  her  thoughts  as  a  mat- 
ter with  which  she  had,  personally,  no  concern.  She  saw  that 
her  father  was  unhappy,  and  wondered  that  he  should  allow  him- 
self to  be  made  so  by  the  conduct  of  a  son  who  was  such  only  in 
name ;  at  times  she  fancied  that  she  saw  in  her  sister  a  wearied, 
careworn  expression  that  she  did  not  have  before,  but  she  could 
not  believe  that  her  happiness  could  be  so  marred  by  the  thought 
of  a  brother  who  was  a  stranger  to  her,  and  she  wondered  what 
could  be  the  matter  with  her.  The  name  of  George  had  never 
been  mentioned  since  that  morning,  and  she  would  again  by  this 
time  have  quite  forgotten  his  existence,  if  the  sight  of  her  father's 
depression  had  not  constantly  reminded  her  of  its  cause. 

She  looked  up  at  him  now  in  surprise,  for  she  could  not  under- 
stand his  indifference,  nay,  more,  his  repugnance  to  meeting  one 
whom  he  had  always  liked,  and  whose  society  he  had  once  so 
much  enjoyed.  With  that  accustomed  freedom  which  was  her 
acknowledged  prerogative,  she  was  just  about  to  remark  upon 
the  change  which  had  come  over  him,  but  there  was  something 
in  his  expression  which  seemed  to  forbid  it,  and  the  conversation 
ceased. 

As  Uncle  John  and  Charles  returned  to  the  house  after  the 
girls  had  driven  off,  the  latter  remarked  : 

"  It  was  more  than  I  bargained  for,  Uncle  John,  to  see  so 
much  company  so  soon.  I  had  forgotten  what  a  favorite  you 
were  among  the  young  ladies,  and  how  unceremoniously  they 
visited  you,  or  I  never  should  have  presented  myself  in  your 
house  in  this  plight.  I  was  taken  completely  at  disadvan- 
tage." 

"  You  were  not  alone  in  that,  Charles ;  indeed,  I  don't  think 
I  ever  saw  a  more  embarrassed  trio.     I  watched  you  all  in  quiet 

17* 


198  CAMERON    HALL. 

amusement.  Eva  was  confused  at  her  abrupt  entree,  you  at 
Julia's  non-recognition,  and  she  at  what  she  thought  would  be 
construed  into  incivility,  at  least,  if  not  positive  rudeness.  None 
of  you  recovered  your  ease  and  self-possession  during  the  visit.'* 

"  I  cannot  speak  for  the  others,  sir,  but  I  know  that  I  did 
not." 

"  Then,  since  you  were  all  so  embarrassed,  perhaps  it  is  not 
fair  to  ask  what  you  thought  of  the  girls ;  are  they  much 
changed?" 

"  The  elder  one  not  at  all ;  the  younger  has  grown  somewhat, 
and  is  in  figure  more  mature  and  better  developed,  but  her  face  is 
very  little  altered." 

"  You  find  Julia  as  quiet  and  undemonstrative  as  ever,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"  Quiet,  yes,  sir ;  but  undemonstrative,  by  Jove,  no  !  The 
moment  she  entered  the  room  I  recognized  her;  but  when  I  saw 
her  walk  up  to  you  and  receive  a  kiss  so  naturally  and  so  much 
as  a  matter  of  course,  I  positively  rubbed  my  eyes  and  looked 
again,  satisfied  that  it  was,  and  yet  that  it  could  not  be  Julia 
Cameron.  It  was  what  I  would  have  expected  from  her  sister, 
but  from  herself,  never  !" 

"  So  much  for  being  a  sober,  staid,  confirmed  old  bachelor, 
my*  boy!  With  "Uncle  John,  she  is  as  free  and  unreserved  as 
with  her  father  ;  and  because  she  is  undemonstrative  to  the  world 
at  large,  the  few  whom  she  does  admit  into  the  depths  of  her 
affection  can  find  out  what  it  is  fully  worth.  Uncle  John  is  one 
of  those  privileged  few;  don't  you  envy  him,  Charles  ?" 

"  Come,  Uncle  John,"  he  replied,  laughing,  "don't  try  to  make 
me  discontented  and  envious  the  moment  that  I  come  under  your 
roof.  Let  me  be  as  happy  as  possible  during  the  brief  time  that 
I  am  with  you ;  and  by  way  of  taking  the  first  step  toward  making 
me  comfortable,  do  take  me  somewhere  to  get  rid  of  this  super- 
fluous dust  before  I  amkjaught  again." 

"  That  is  the  disadvantage  and  discomfort,  Charles,  of  visiting 
an  Q]d  bachelor.  Now  the  forethought  of  woman  would  have 
had  all  that  provided  for  long  ago,  and  immediately  upon  your 
arrival  you  would  have  been  ushered  into  a  room  where  water  in 
any  quantity,  toilet  soap,  and  plenty  of  towels  would  have  fur- 
nished the  means  of  relieving  yourself  of  any  amount  of  dust. 
As  it  is,  I  have  never  thought  of  it  until  this  minute,  and  should 
not  have  done  so  then,  if  you  had  not  reminded  me.  Hallo, 
Tom  1"  he  shouted,  as  he  saw  the  servant  crossing  the  yard. 
"Come  here  !" 

Tom  obeyed,  and  received  his  master's  orders,  and  as  he  turned  . 
to  go  away,  Uncle  John  called  out : 


CAMERON    HALL.  199 

"Be  sure  to  have  plenty  of  water,  Tom  I  The  doctor  says 
that  he  is  very  dusty!  Now,  Charles,"  he  added,  "let  me  tell 
you,  iu  the  begiDuing,  that  you  must  make  yourself  at  home  and 
provide  for  your  own  comfort.  Don't  depend  upon  me.  I  am 
so  accustomed  to  think  only  of  myself  that  I  am  afraid  you  will 
be  neglected.     A  solitary  life  has  made  me  selfish." 

"  That,  Uncle  John,  I  positively  deny,  upon  the  evidence  of 
my  own  senses.  A  habitually  selfish  man  could  never  have  so 
forgotten  himself  and  merged  his  own  wishes  in  those  of  another, 
as  I  saw  you  do  in  Paris.  No,  sir,  selfishness  is  not  one  of  your 
faults." 

"  That  case  was  peculiar,  Charles,  and  would  have  overcome, 
for  the  time  being,  the  most  confirmed  selfishness." 

"  How  is  Agnes,  sir  ?" 

"  Not  quite  so  strong  and  rosy  as  when  you  parted  from  her. 
She  sits  at  the  organ  too  much." 

"Absence,  then,  did  not  wean  her  from  it." 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  is,  if  possible,  more  devoted  to  it  than 
ever.  I  used  to  think  that  it  was  the  pleasure  of  her  life  ;  now 
it  seems  to  be  her  very  life  itself.  But  here  is  Tom,  come  to  say 
that  your  room  is  ready.  Go  along  and  get  rid  of  your  trouble- 
some dust.  Meanwhile  I  will  go  and  bring  Agnes,  and  you  shall 
see  her  for  yourself,  and  we  three  will  have  one  of  our  Paris  meals 
together." 

Agnes  and  her  mother  were  sitting  upon  the  porch  enjoying 
the  cool  breeze  of  approaching  twilight.  The  child  had  a  bouquet 
in  her  hands,  and  was  tracing  the  form,  and  feeling  the  texture 
of  the  flowers,  as  her  mother  told  her  the  name  of  each.  It  was 
an  unsatisfactory  task  to  both,  and  at  last  Agnes  laid  them  down, 
wearily,  saying  : 

"  It  is  no  use,  mother.  I  cannot,  without  eyes,  know  what  a 
flower  is."  ^ 

Just  then  Uncle  John  reached  the  pavement  in  front  of  the 
gate.     She  heard  his  step,  and  exclaimed,  gladly  : 

"  But  I  can  hear,  if  I  cannot  see,  and  I  know  that  Uncle  John 
is  coming  I" 

"Not  coming,  Agnes,  but  already  here,"  he  replied,  stepping 
upon  the  porch. 

Grace  received  him  as  usual.  Their  intercourse  of  late  had 
not  been  quite  what  it  had  always  been,  for  neither  could  alto- 
gether conceal  the  recollection  of  their  painful  interview ;  but  with 
wonderful  self-control  neither  had  ever  made  the  slightest  allusion 
to  it. 

"You  have  come  to  stay.  Uncle  John,  haven't  you?"  she 
asked,  seeing  that  he  did  not  sit  down  as  usual. 


200  CAMERON    HALL. 

"No,  Grace,  not  this  evening.  I  have  come  to  borrow  Agnes 
for  a  little  while.  I  want  her  to  take  tea  with  me,  and  will  pro- 
mise to  bring  her  home  safely  and  in  good  season.  Will  yoa 
go,  Agnes?" 

"  I  would  like  to  go  very  much,  Uncle  John,  but  then,  if  I  do, 
mother  will  be  left  by  herself." 

"Never  mind  that,  Agnes,"  said  her  mother.  "I  stayed  so 
much  by  myself  while  you  were  gone,  that  I  became  quite  ac- 
customed to  it.  I  would  much  rather  that  you  should  go.  I 
will  get  your  bonnet." 

She  went  into  the  house  to  get  the  bonnet,  and  Uncle  John 
followed  her. 

"Charles  Beaufort  came  most  unexpectedly  this  afternoon,"  he 
said,  "the  Dr.  Charles  that  you  have  heard  her  talk  so  much 
about,  and  I  want  him  to  see  her.  I  would  not  tell  her,  because 
I  want  to  enjoy  her  surprise  when  she  hears  his  voice." 

"  Oh,  then,  Uncle  John,  you  must  wait  a  few  minutes  until  I 
change  her  dress.     I  did  not  know  that  you  had  company." 

"Mother's  vanity,  Grace,"  said  Uncle  John,  smiling;  "but 
have  your  own  way,  I  will  wait," 

A  few  minutes  were  sufficient  to  complete  the  child's  simple 
toilet,  and  yet  it  was  as  carefully  arranged  as  if  she  herself  could 
have  been  gratified  by  the  result.  As  her  mother  led  her  back 
and  she  stood  before  Uncle  John,  her  white  muslin  dress  falling 
in  soft  folds  about  her  slight  figure,  her  brown  hair  parted  smoothly 
from  her  forehead,  and  her  face  lighted  up  with  the  pleasure  of 
going  home  with  him,  he  thought  that  he  had  rarely  seen  a 
sweeter  picture  of  childish  loveliness. 

So,  too,  thought  Charles  Beaufort,  as  he  saw  them  approaching 
the  house,  and  walked  toward  the  gate  to  meet  them.  A  significant 
gesture  from  Uncle  John  was  readily  interpreted ;  and,  approach- 
ing unannounced,  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  as  h^reached  her  side; 

"Agnes  1" 

"Oh,  Dr.  Charles  I"  she  exclaimed,  joyfully,  "how  glad  I  am 
to  see  you  !  When  -did  you  come  ?  Uncle  John,  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  that  I  was  going  to  see  him  ?" 

"Because  I  wanted  to  give  you  a  pleasant  surprise,  Agnes. 
It  seems  like  old  times,  for  us  three  to  be  together,  doesn't  it  ?" 

'"Yes,  sir;  only  it  is  a  great  deal  pleasanter  to  be  together 
here  than  so  far  away  from  home.  Will  you  stay  a  long  time 
with  us.  Dr.  Charles  ?" 

"Not  very  long,  Agnes;  not  more  than  three  days." 

"  Why  not  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"Because  I  cannot  now  do  what  I  would  like  to  do.  I  belong 
to  the  army,  now,  and  my  place  and  business  are  there. 


CAMERON    HALL.  201 

"How  I  wish  that  there  wasn't  any  war  !"  she  exclaimed.  "It 
interferes  with  everybody's  pleasure.  Uncle  John,  what  made 
the  people  have  a  war  ?" 

"That,  my  daughter,  is  beyond  the  comprehension  of  older  and 
wiser  heads  than  yours." 

"  I  can  tell  you,  Agnes,"  said  Charles,  "  why  the  people  have  a 
war,  but  I  don't  know  that  you  will  understand  it.  It  is  simply 
because  a  Yankee  can  never  be  contented  to  let  well  enough  alone, 
and  there  is  nothing  in  heaven,  on  earth,  or  under  the  earth,  with 
which  he  can  be  entirely  satisfied  unless  he  has  had  a  finger  in 
the  arrangement." 

"I  don't  think,  Charles,"  said  Uncle  John,  laughing,  "that 
she  is  much  wiser  now  than  she  was  before." 

She  held  Charles's  hand,  and  touched  the  buttons  upon  his 
sleeve. 

"  What  makes  you  wear  buttons  upon  your  sleeve,  Dr.  Charles  ?" 
she  asked.  "  Was  that  the  fashion  in  Paris  ?  I  don't  think  that 
you  wore  them  there." 

"No,  Agnes,  it  is  not  the  Paris,  but  the  military  fashion." 

"Are  you  a  general  ?" 

"Xo,  only  a  doctor, —  plain  Dr.  Charles,  as  I  have  always 
been." 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that.  All  that  you  will  have  to  do  will 
be  to  attend  to  the  sick  and  wounded  soldiers ;  you  won't  have  to 
fight,  and  be  shot,  and  perhaps  killed." 

"No,  I  will  not  have  to  fight ;  but  it  does  not  follow  that  I  may 
not  die  of  disease,  or  even  be  killed.  Do  you  know  that  disease 
kills  more  soldiers  than  cannon  balls  do  ?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  I  thought  the  only  danger  was  of  being  shot.  You 
won't  have  to  be  shot,  will  you  ?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  smiling,  "  not  necessarily,  although  a  stray 
ball  might  perhaps  reach  me." 

"  But  if  I  were  you  I  would  stay  out  of  the  reach  of  all  balls 
and  shots.  If  you  don't  have  to  go  into  the  fight,  you  can  find  a 
safe  place  to  stay  until  it  is  over." 

"  I  cannot  choose  my  place,  Agnes.  I  must  go  where  I  can 
be  most  useful  to  the  wounded  soldiers  as  they  are  brought  from 
the  field,  and  there  is  no  place  near  a  battle-field  that  can  be  con- 
sidered perfectly  safe.  Besides,  you  would  not  want  me  to  be 
thinking  only  of  myself,  would  you  ?  If  that  is  what  I  am  going 
to  do,  I  ought  to  have  stayed  at  home.  I  know  that  you  would 
want  me  to  do  my  duty." 

"Yes,  sir ;  but  I  would  rather  that  you  should  do  it  in  a  safe 
place." 

"  So  would  we  all,"  he  answered,  laughing  ;  "  but  soldiers  must 


202  CAMERON    HALL. 


learn  not  to  think  about  that.    With  them,  duty  mast  be  first,  and 
safety  afterwards." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Dr.  Charles,  that  you,  too,  have  been  obliged 
to  join  the  army.  Now  I  shall  have  two  to  be  anxious  about: 
you  and  Mr.  Walter." 

"  I  was  not  obliged  to  do  it,  Agnes,  I  did  it  voluntarily.  Would 
you  be  vs^illing  for  me  to  stay  at  home  and  let  other  young  men 
fight  my  battles  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  she  answered,  sadly,  and  with  hesitation;  "but  I 
wish  that  nobody  had  any  battles  to  fight.  I  wish  that  there 
wasn't  any  war." 

"We  all  wish  that,  child,"  said  Charles,  musingly;  "  and  we 
will  wish  it  more  profoundly  than  we  do  now  befcrre  we  get  through 
with  it." 

"  Come,  Charles,"  exclaimed  Uncle  John,  "how  upon  earth  did 
you  and  Agnes  fall  into  so  dolorous  a  strain  of  conversation  ? 
This  will  not  do.  We  three  travelers,  at  this,  our  first  reunion, 
ought  to  have  pleasanter  themes  than  these.  But  coipe,  tea  is 
ready ;  I  see  Alfred  coming  to  announce  it." 

It  seemed,  indeed,  like  old  times,  the  three  at  the  little  round 
table,  with  Uncle  John  pouring  out  tea,  Agnes  at  his  right,  and 
Charles  opposite. 

"  This  seems  like  Paris,  doesn't  it,  my  daughter  ?"  said  Uncle 
John. 

"  No,  sir.  There  is  a  home-feeling  here  which  there  never  was 
in  Paris." 

"That  is  true,  child.     That  one  word  fully  describes  the  differ- 


ence." 


The  conversation  now  took  a  pleasant  turn.  The  war  was  for- 
gotten by  the  child,  and  avoided  by  her  companions,  and  they 
dwelt  upon  the  pleasures  that  they  had  enjoyed  together  in  the 
Old  World.  The  Fribourg  organ  was  mentioned,  and  at  the 
magic  word  the  last  lingering  shade  was  dispelled  from  the  child- 
ish face  and  heart,  and  next  to  hearing  it  again  was  the  pleasure 
of  talking  about  it  with  those  who  had  enjoyed  it  with  her. 

The  evening  was  quite  too  short  for  Agnes,  and  her  friends 
enjoyed  it  not  less  than  herself  Theirs  was  not  merely  a  reflected 
pleasure,  a  compensation,  in  her  evident  enjoyment;  for,  whatever 
pains  they  might  have  taken  to  adapt  their  conversation  to  her 
understanding,  in  her  both  Uncle  John  and  Charles  had  al- 
ways found  an  interesting  companion.  There  was  no  unnatural 
precocity  about  her.  She  was  a  thorough  child,  and,  because  of 
her  iuSi-mity,  knew  less  than  most  children  of  her  age,  and  yet 
there  was  a  maturity  of  thought  and  feeling  about  her,  conse- 
quent upon  her  association  always  with  older  persons,  which  made 


CAMERON    HALL.  203 

her  appear  mncb  older  than  she  really  was,  and  disposed  her 
friends  to  regard  her  rather  as  a  companion  than  a  child.  And 
so  it  was  to-night.  The  evening  slipped  away  as  pleasantly  to 
them  as  it  did  to  her,  and  when  Uncle  John  after  awhile  remem- 
bered to  look  at  his  watch,  he  exclaimed  : 

"Nearly  eleven  o'clock  I  I  have  not  kept  my  promise  to  your 
mother,  Agnes.  I  told  her  that  I  would  bring  you  home  at  your 
usual  bedtime.     Come,  you  must  go  this  very  minute." 

"  Not  yet,  Uncle  John  f  please  let  me  stay  a  little  longer!" 

"Not  another  moment.  You  ought  to  have  been  inched  an 
hour  ago;  so  bid  Dr.  Charles  good-night,  and  let  us  go." 

"  Dr.  Charles,"  she  said,  "  please  come  along  and  walk  with  us  • 
you  are  not  too  tired,  are  you  ?"  * 

"By  no  means,  Agnes.  A  soldier  must  not  confess  that  he  is 
tired  from  traveling  a  day  and  two  nights  in  a  railroad  car.  I 
will  go  with  you  with  pleasure." 

When  they  reached  the  gate,  she  said : 

"Dr.  Charles,  I  want  you  to  come  in  for  a  little  while.  I  want 
you  to  hear  my  beautiful  organ." 

She  never  wanted  any  one  to  hear  her  play,  for  she  was  quite 
unconscious  that  any  remarkable  skill  of  her  own  had  auo-ht  to 
do  with  the  result  which  so  delighted  her;  she  rather  reg°arded 
the  music  as  a  peculiar  favor  which  the  instrument  conferred  upon 
her  in  consideration  of  her  blindness. 

"Positively,  no,"  answered  Uncle  John;  "it  is  too  late,  alto- 
gether too  late  I  Go  to  bed  now,  Agnes,  and  he  shall  come  to- 
morrow, and  you  shall  play  for  him  then." 

"But  I  want  him  now,"  she  persisted,  for  she  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  denial. 

Charles  seconded  her  request. 

"Only  for  a  little  while,  Uncle  John.  It  is  night,  and  music 
sounds  so  much  sweeter  at  night,  and,  above  all,  it  is  glorious 
moonlight.     Let  her  play,  Uncle  John,  please  do." 

Overcome,  as  usual,  he  said  pleasantly,  as  he  opened  the 
gate  : 

"  Come  along,  you  two  willful  children,  and  have  your  -own 
way ;  but  old  Uncle  John  knows  that  it  is  not  rig-ht.  She  ous-ht 
to  be  in  bed."  ^ 

"Dr.  Charles,"  said  Agnes,  "did  you  say  that  music  always 
sounds  sweeter  at  night  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"Then,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "that  is  the  reason  why  it 
sounds  sweeter  to  me  than  to  anybody  else." 

"  How  so,  Agnes  ?" 

"  It  is  always  night  to  me,  Dr.  Charles  I" 


204  CAMERON    HALL. 

Grace  was  sitting  in  the  porch  awaiting  Agnes's  return.  She 
welcomed  cordially  the  friend  to  whom  her  child  was  so  much  at- 
tached. He  apologized  for  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  but  pleaded 
his  anxiety  to  hear  Agnes  play.  Grace  arose  to  bring  candles,  as 
she  said,  into  the  parlor,  but  Uncle  John  and  Charles  both  ob- 
jected. They  said  that  Agnes  needed  no  light,  and  that  they 
preferred  the  moonlight. 

"Dr.  Charles,"  said  Agnes,  "do  you  love  the  moonlight  very 
much  ?" 

"  Yes,  Agnes ;  there  are  few  things  in  this  world  so  beautiful 
as  a  moonlight  night;  and  a  man  who  can  stand  and  look  upon  a 
landscape  softened  and  subdued  by  the  moonlight,^  and  not  feel 
its  influence  upon  his  soul,  is  no  man  at  all." 

"  Which  do  you  love  best,  moonlight  or  sunlight  ?" 

"  Moonlight  is  most  beautiful,  Agnes ;  sunlight  most  neces- 
sary. Moonlight  is  soft,  subdued,  quiet ;  sunlight  is  bright, 
sparkling,  restless." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Dr.  Charles,  she  said,  shaking  her 
head  sadly.  "  You  say  that  moonlight  is  soft, — I  know  what 
that  is,  for  I  have  touched  soft  things;  but  subdued, — I  don't 
know  what  that  means.  Mother,  you  tell  me  what  moonlight  is. 
Dr.  Charles  loves  it  so  much  that  I  want  to  know  what  it  is,  and 
then  perhaps  I  can  play  it  for  him  on  my  organ,  just  like  the 
musician  in  Fribourg  played  the  storm,  the  thunder,  the  lightning, 
and  the  wind." 

Grace  drew  the  child  toward  her,  and  taking  her  hand,  said : 

"Agnes,  did  you  feel  very  glad  to-night,  when  you  saw  Dr. 
Charles  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother,  just  as  glad  as  I  could  be  1  If  I  had  only  had 
•eyes,  I  should  have  run  and  shouted  and  capered  all  over  Uncle 
John's  yard." 

"  That,  my  daughter,  was  sunlight :  bright  and  glad  and 
happy  1" 

"  Now,  when  I  read  to  you  this  morning  about  heaven, — no 
night,  no  tears,  no  death,  but  eternal  life,  eternal  bliss,  eternal 
song, — did  you  feel  like  shouting  in  mirth  and  glee  then,  my 
daughter  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  mother  I"  she  replied,  earnestly  and  solemnly, 
"  not  that  1  I  felt  very  glad,  but  very  still ;  very  happy,  but 
very  quiet." 

"  That,  Agnes,  is  moonlight :  serene,  peaceful,  beautiful !" 

"Oh,  mother  I"  she  exclaimed,  with  delight,  "now  I  know  all 
about  it !     Now  I  can  play  sunlight  and  moonlight  too  !" 

In  her  anxiety  to  convey  her  ideas  clearly  to  her  little  listener, 
the  mother  had  forgotten  the  presence  of  others,  who,  unac- 


CAMERON    HALL.  205 

customed  to  such  methods  of  instruction,  had  heard  in  silent 
surprise. 

They  were  aroused  from  their  reverie  by  the  bright,  glad  music 
which  rippled  and  sparkled  beneath  her  touch,  and  lighted  up 
the  heart  with  its  glad  exhilaration,  as  the  sunshine  does  the 
world.  Presently  it  died  away ;  and  then  a  soft  and  subdued 
strain  trembled  upon  the  air,  and  lingered  upon  the  ear.  Pure 
and  silvery  in  its  tones,  as  the  moonlight  in  its  beauty,  it  left 
upon  the  heart,  as  the  moonlight  does  upon  the  landscape,  a 
peaceful,  quiet  serenity,  almost  heavenly  in  its  repose. 

Uncle  John,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  her  music,  was  scarcely 
less  amazed  than  his  companion.  Neither  moved  nor  spoke, 
until  the  childish  voice  at  their  side  said  : 

*'  Dr.  Charles,  did  you  know  what  I  was  playing  ?" 

"  I  could  not  mistake  it,  Agnes  ;  only  your  music  was  sweeter 
than  moonlight,  brighter  than  sunshine.  Wonderful,  wonderful !" 
he  murmured. 

When  they  arose  to  go.  Uncle  John  said  : 

"Grace,  I  have  an  odd  sort  of  whim,  which  I  would  like  for 
you  and  Agnes  to  gratify.  I  want  Agnes  at  all  our  meals  while 
Charles  stays  with  me ;  it  seems  so  natural  for  us  three  to  be  at 
the  table  together.  I  will  come  for  her,  and  bring  her  back. 
What  do  you  say  ?  Will  you  lend  her  to  us  at  meal-time  for  the 
next  three  days?" 

"  With  pleasure.  Uncle  John  ?" 

"And  what  do  you  say,  Agnes  ?" 

"Oh,  Uncle  John,  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  go  I" 

"Very  well,  it  is  a  bargain.  I  will  come  for  you  in  the  morn- 
ing, before  breakfast." 

Accordingly,  the  next  day,  she  breakfasted  and  dined  with  her 
friends;  and  when  they  drove  out  to  the  Hall,  in  the  afternoon, 
Uncle  John  placed  a  little  stool  in  the  bottom  of  the  buggy  for 
her,  and  she  accompanied  them. 

To  this  promised  visit  Eva  had  looked  forward  all  day  with 
the  greatest  pleasure.  There  was  still  about  her  much  of  that 
childish  abandon  which  Dr.  Beaufort  had  thought  so  attractive 
two  years  before,  and  which  had  led  him  to  believe  that  she  was 
even  then  more  of  a  child  than  she  really  was.  She  still  looked 
upon  him  as  greatly  her  superior  in  age,  not  realizing  that  in 
those  two  years  she  had  made  abound  toward  womanhood  which 
made  her  very  much  nearer  his  equal  now  than  she  was  then. 
She  was  quite  unconscious  that  a  degree  of  reserve,  such  as  she 
had  never  thought  of  before,  would  now  be  becoming  in  her  in- 
tercourse with  him,  and  she  did  not  dream  that  anybody  could 
find  fault  with  her,  when,  seeing  the  buggy  far  up  the  road,  she 

18 


206  CAMERON     HALL. 

bounded  out  of  the  house  and  ran  down  the  lawn  to  open  the 
gate.  Uncle  John  drew  up  his  horse  and  stopped  to  speak  to 
her,  and  when  she  welcomed  the  stranger  with  the  same  unaf- 
fected pleasure  that  she  did  himself,  there  was  such  a  childlike 
ease  and  naturalness  about  it  all,  that  her  guests,  like  herself, 
quite  forgot  that  there  was  anything  in  her  conduct  of  which  the 
most  rigid  propriety  could  complain. 

Charles  sprang  from  the  buggy,  and  insisted  that  she  should 
take  his  seat ;  but  she  shook  her  head,  and  said,  laughing : 

"  No,  indeed,  I  cannot  think  of  going  back  at  that  gait !  I'll 
wager  that  I  can  get  there  now  sooner  than  any  of  you  who  go 
behind  Uncle  John's  old  horse,  even  at  his  briskest  trot  !" 

"See  here,  children,"  said  Uncle  John,  "Agnes  and  I  are 
quietly  awaiting  your  decision.  Which  of  you  is  to  ride  with  us 
to  the  house  ?" 

"  Neither,  sir,"  replied  Charles.  "  Miss  Eva  positively  refuses, 
and  I  am  sure  you  will  not  quarrel  with  me  for  preferring  her 
company  to  yours,  as  far  as  the  house." 

"All  right,  my  boy  I" 

With  the  tap  of  the  whip  they  drove  off,  and  Uncle  John  and 
Agnes  had  been  seated  in  the  parlor  several  minutes,  when 
Charles  and  Eva  slowly  sauntered  in,  the  former  with  a  hand- 
ful of  flowers,  which,  together,  they  had  plucked  as  they  strolled 
along. 

Julia  had,  by  no  means,  looked  forward  to  this  visit  with  the 
same  pleasure  as  Eva.  On  the  contrary,  she  had  dreaded  it,  and 
wished  that  she  might  be  spared  the  trial.  Under  other  circum- 
stances, she  would  gladly  have  met  her  old  acquaintance;  and 
even  now,  if  she  could  have  met  him  as  a  friend,  she  would  not 
have  objected,  but  her  own  heart  had  told  her  long  ago  that  this 
was  impossible.  She  had  then  determined  that  if  they  ever  met 
again,  it  should  be  as  strangers ;  but  a  single  eflfort  had  proved 
that  this  could  not  be,  for  it  was  very  evident  that  he  himself 
would  not  allow  it.  After  she  parted  with  him  at  Uncle  John's, 
she  had  thought  long  and  earnestly  of  their  present  relation  to 
each  other.  Even  in  their  short  interview,  formal  and  embar- 
rassed though  it  was,  there  had  been  something  in  his  tone  and 
look  which  she  could  not  but  feel  and  understand ;  and  the  thrill 
of  pleasure  with  which  she  saw  it  had  involuntarily  betrayed  it- 
self in  the  few  words  that  she  had  spoken,  simple  enough  them- 
selves, and  scarcely  as  much  as  the  occasion  required,  and  yet 
she  would  not  have  spoken  them  if  she  could  have  thought  a 
moment.  And  as  she  reflected  upon  it,  she  decided  that  all  that 
was  now  left  her  to  do  was  to  repair  her  error  as  best  she  could. 
She  had  tried  to  meet  him  as  a  stranger,  and  had  failed  ;  she 


CAMERON    HALL.  207 

would  try  now  and  meet  him  as  a  friend.  She  knew  that  it 
would  be  a  very  great  effort,  and  she  was  afraid  it  would  be  im- 
possible, but  she  was  determined  to  try.  She  would  treat  him  so 
unmistakably  as  a  friend,  that  he  should  see  that  she  so  regarded 
him  now,  and  that  this  was  all  that  he  could  ever  be.  But  Julia 
had  over-estimated  her  self-control.  She  felt  it  the  moment  that 
he  entered  the  room  and  took  her  hand,  and  she  knew  that  she 
must  at  ODce  decide  between  absolute  frigidity  and  the  cordiality 
which,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was  not  right  to  show.  And 
therefore  she  met  him  coldly,  so  coldly  that  he  was  chilled  to  the 
heart,  especially  after  Eva's  unaffectedly  cordial  welcome.  He 
felt  that  it  was  more  than  her  usually  cold,  quiet  manner ;  it  was 
more  than  embarrassment;  and  between  her  reception  of  him 
to-day  at  her  own  house,  and  her  unexpected  meeting  with  him 
the  day  before,  there  was  an  inconsistency  which  he  could  not 
explain.  She  had  been  evidently  embarrassed  then,  unaccountably 
so  ;  but  at  the  same  time,  through  it  all,  he  had  detected  a  pleasure 
at  meeting  him  again  which  she  could  not  conceal,  and  which  had 
made  him  look  forward  to  this  visit  with  hope  and  eagerness ;  but 
now  this  was  all  gone.  His  presence  seemed  not  only  a  restraint, 
but  a  painful  one. 

If  anything,  however,  could  have  compensated  him  for  Julia's 
cold  reception,  he  would  have  found  it  in  his  welcome  from  the 
other  members  of  the  family.  There  was  neither  coldness  nor 
reserve  with  Eva;  and  as  to  Mr.  Cameron,  he  had  not  been,  for 
months,  so  like  his  former  self.  He  and  Charles  had  been,  not- 
withstanding the  difference  in  their  ages,  much  together  at  the 
Springs.  Their  tastes  were  congenial :  they  loved  the  woods 
and  the  pleasures  of  hunting  and  fishing,  and  as  they  found 
themselves  there  early  in  the  season,  when  there  were  but  few 
visitors,  they  had  formed  a  friendship  which  satisfied  both,  after 
they  each  had  access  to  companions  nearer  their  own  age.  And 
although  in  the  morbidness  of  his  feelings  Mr.  Cameron  had 
expressed  to  Eva  an  indifference,  if  not  a  positive  reluctance  to 
renewing  his  acquaintance  with  his  young  friend,  yet,  now  that  he 
had  met  him  again,  frank,  cordial,  and  genial  as  ever,  his  moodi- 
ness and  sadness  were  dispelled,  and  he  was,  for  the  time  being, 
almost  his  former  self 

The  conversation  was  so  general  and  animated,  that  Julia 
hoped  that  her  silence  would  pass  unnoticed,  but  in  this  she  was 
mistaken.  One  guest  felt  it,  and  the  other  saw  it,  for  Uncle 
John  knew  too  well  every  expression  of  her  face  to  be  deceived 
when  anything  weighed  upon  her  spirits. 

Charles  waited  in  vain  for  her  to  mingle  in  the  conversation, 
and  finally  determined,  by  a  direct  effort,  either  to  dispel  the 


208  CAMERON    HALL. 

shadow  or  to  deepen  it.     Taking  a  vacant  chair  by  her  side,  he 

said  : 

"  Miss  Cameron,  will  you  oblige  me  by  arranging  these  flow- 
ers into  a  bouquet  ?  They  are  individually  beautiful,  but  I  have 
mixed  them  up  in  such  confusion  that  their  beauty  is  compara- 
tively lost." 

She  took  the  flowers  and  began  to  arrange  them.  As  one 
after  another  was  added  according  as  her  taste  directed,  and  the 
bouquet  grew  into  beautiful  symmetry,  Charles  looked  admiringly 
at  it,  and  said  : 

"  Isn't  it  strange.  Uncle  John,  that  the  very  same  elements  of 
beauty  should  present,  under  ditferent  combinations,  such  differ- 
ent results  ?  These  flowers  were  just  now  literally  a  bunch,  their 
beauty  almost  entirely  lost  in  the  want  of  arrangement;  now 
they  are  growing  into  a  beautiful  bouquet  of  fair  proportions, 
and  with  colors  harmoniously  blended." 

"  Yes,  Charles,"  he  answered ;  "  our  sex  may  love  and  admire 
flowers,  but  we  do  not  often  know  how  to  arrange  them.  I 
know,"  he  added,  laughing,  "  that  if  Julia  could  see  the  vases 
that  you  dressed  this  morning,  she  would  have  pity  alike  upon 
you  and  upon  my  parlor,  and  do  it  over  for  us." 

"No  she  .wouldn't,  Uncle  John  I"  exclaimed  Eva,  her  eyes 
full  of  mischief.  "  She  would  not  pity  him  at  all,  nor  would  she 
arrange  his  vases  for  him ;  for  I  asked  her  this  morning  to  help 
me  dress  the  parlor,  and  reminded  her  that  Dr.  Beaufort  was  a 
great  lover  of  flowers,  but  she  would  not,  and  I  had  it  to  do  all 
alone.  I  cannot  account  for  it,  for  she  is  not  generally  so  unac- 
commodating." 

Julia  blushed  deeply,  and  Charles  saw  it,  but  he  turned  away, 
and  replied  to  Eva : 

"  Well,  Miss  Eva,  if  I  want  my  vases  dressed,  I  can  engage 
your  services." 

"Yes,  sir,  you  can  command  mine  at  any  time.  It  may  be," 
she  added,  quite  unconscious  of  the  pain  she  was  inflicting,  and 
intent  only  upon  indulging  her  love  of  teasing,  "  that  if  you 
make  personal  application,  she  may  oblige  you,  as  she  has  done 
about  the  bouquet.  She  may  do  it  for  you,  when  she  would  not 
for  me." 

Poor  Julia  was  painfully  embarrassed  by  Eva's  raillery.  She 
tried  to  hide  her  confusion  over  her  bouquet,  but  the  more  that 
she  felt  her  crimson  face  to  be  the  object  of  remark  and  wonder, 
the  deeper  grew  the  flush.  She  bore  it  as  long  as  she  could,  and 
then,  murmuring  something  about  getting  a  ribbon  to  tie  the 
flowers,  she  left  the  room.  When  she  returned,  she  was  quiet 
and  composed  as  usual,  and  the  conversation  had  again  become 


CAMERON    HALL.  209 

general ;  and  Charles,  at  a  loss  to  conjecture  what  it  meant,  and 
yet  unwilling  to  do  anything  to  annoy  her,  did  not  address  him- 
self particularly  to  her  again.  When  they  were  going  away,  Mr. 
Cameron  said : 

"  Uncle  John,  I  wish  that  you  and  the  Doctor  would  come  to- 
morrow and  spend  a  day  in  the  country — an  old  Virginia  day, 
which  means  to  come  early  in  the  morning,  and  stay  until  bed- 
time. I  would  scar^jely  think  it  fair  to  ask  you  to  surrender  him 
entirely  for  one  whole  day,  when  he  has  only  three  to  give  you ; 
but,  inasmuch  as  you  will  come  along,  it  will  be  no  great  gene- 
rosity on  your  part  to  share  his  company  with  us." 

**  I  will  very  cheerfully  do  so,  sir,  and  will  take  the  liberty  of 
replying  for  him,  that  he  will  consent  as  willingly  as  myself.  Is 
it  not  so,  Charles  ?" 

He  could  not  do  otherwise  than  accept  an  invitation  which  in 
the  morning  he  would  have  received  with  great  pleasure,  but 
which  now  he  would  not  unwillingly  have  declined.  He  could 
not  refuse,  however,  and  so  it  was  arranged. 

"You  must  bring  Agnes,  too,  Uncle  John,"  said  Mr.  Came- 
ron, as  he  led  her  to  the  door. 

"Certainly,  sir,"  he  answered,  smiling;  "I  shall  bring  all  of 
my  family,  and  she  makes  one  of  it  while  Charles  is  here.  You 
cannot  imagine  how  completely  the  addition  of  two  to  my  house- 
hold has  altered  the  aspect  of  my  house.  It  really  looks  inhab- 
ited now.  And  as  to  myself,  sir,  I  am  quite  oppressed  with  the 
dignity  and  responsibility  of  being  at  the  head  of  a  family." 

Julia  saw  the  preparations  for  departure  with  relief,  and  hoped 
that  this  day's  trial  at  least  was  over ;  but  she  was  both  surprised 
and  annoyed  when  she  heard  her  father  say: 

"Uncle  John,  put  Jim  into  your  buggy,  and  let  him  drive 
through  the  grove  and  wait  for  you  at  the  other  end,  and  the 
girls  and  I  will  walk  that  far  with  you.  It  is  a  pleasant  evening 
for  a  walk." 

"Agreed,"  replied  Uncle  John,     "  I  like  the  arrangement." 

The  party  walked  along  together  through  the  lane,  but  when 
they  entered  the  woods,  the  narrowness  of  the  path  compelled 
them  to  go  in  pairs,  of  which  circumstance  Charles  took  advan- 
tage to  get  by  the  side  of  Julia.  Disappointed  in  the  result  of 
his  visit,  and  annoyed,  he  scarcely  knew  wherefore,  he  determined 
to  find  out,  if  possible,  whether  his  presence  had  anything  to  do 
with  her  painful  embarrassment. 

"  The  purpose  of  my  visit  is  yet  unaccomplished,  Miss  Came- 
ron," he  said.  "  TVe  have  not  recalled  together  any  of  those 
pleasant  memories  of  which  we  spoke  yesterday." 

18* 


210  CAMERON    HALL. 

"The  conversation  has  been  so  general,"  she  answered,  eva- 
sively, "that  there  has  been  no  opportunity." 

"And  yet  it  has  not  been  so  general  but  that  your  father  and 
sister  have  both  found  opportunity  to  recall  scenes  and  amuse- 
ments in  which  we  participated  together.  You  alone  have  been 
silent;  you  alone  of  that  party  seem  to  remember  nothing  of  that 
time  with  pleasure.  I  had  hoped  otherwise,  and  last  night  I  be- 
lieved otherwise,  after  you  told  me  that  those  memories  were 
pleasant  to  both." 

The  word  "  Forget"  trembled  upon  her  lips,  but  she  checked 
it,  and  answered  quietly: 

"  I  spoke  truly,  Dr.  Beaufort.  Those  were  happy  days  to  me, 
and  their  memory  may  not  be  the  less  pleasant  because  I  have 
not  said  so." 

"  You  have  said  so  once,"  he  answered,  with  a  hurried  tone. 
"  You  admitted  it  yesterday,  but  to-day  there  has  been  neither 
word  nor  look  to  make  me  believe,  not  only  that  you  remembered 
that  time  with  pleasure,  but  that  you  even  recollected  it  at  all. 
I  wish.  Miss  Cameron,"  he  added,  with  a  perplexed  air,  "that  I 
could  understand  it." 

Julia  felt  that  they  were  approaching  dangerous  ground,  and 
she  would  gladly  have  had  a  moment  to  collect  her  thoughts  and 
reflect  upon  what  she  should  answer.  She  was  relieved  from  her 
dilemma  %  a  voice  in  front,  which  called  out : 

"  Come  along,  Charles,  Agnes  and  I  are  waiting  for  yon." 

Julia,  glad  to  be  released,  hurried  forward  without  any  reply 
at  all,  and  a  few  minutes  afterward  her  guests  were  whirling  rap- 
idly along  in  the  distance.  On  their  return,  her  father  and  Eva 
did  all  the  talking.  The  visit  had  been  like  a  sunbeam  to  Mr. 
Cameron.  The  revival  of  past  pleasures  had,  for  the  time  being 
at  least,  diverted  his  thoughts  from  his  present  trouble,  and  Julia 
felt  self-condemned  at  her  own  inability  to  participate  in  that  cheer- 
fulness which  she  was  so  truly  glad  to  see  in  him.  But  she  could 
not  rouse  herself;  a  cloud  was  upon  her  face,  and  a  heavy  weight 
was  upon  her  heart,  which  she  felt  so  helpless  to  remove  that  she 
yielded  to  the  pressure  in  unresisting  submission. 

"  Uncle  John,"  said  Charles,  abruptly,  as  they  drove  off,  "  what 
is  the  matter  with  Miss  Cameron  ?" 

"  Is  anything  the  matter  ?"  he  asked  in  return. 

"  I  should  think,  sir,  that  it  would  be  very  evident  to  you,  since 
it  is  so  plain  to  me,  a  comparative  stranger.  This  visit,  or  some- 
thing else,  was  so  decidedly  painful  to  her,  that  it  was  anything 
but  a  pleasure  to  me,  and  I  sincerely  regret  the  necessity  of  a 
repetition  of  it  to-morrow." 

"  Julia  has  much  to  bear,  for  one  of  her  age,  Charles.     Her 


CAMERON    HALL.  211 

young  brother,  for  whom  she  feels  a  mother's  rather  than  a  sis- 
ter's love  and  anxiety,  has  recently  gone  to  the  army ;  her  father 

is  now  depressed  and  care-worn,  and "  he  thought  of  that 

other  and  heaviest  burden  of  them  all,  but  he  only  shook  his 
head,  saying  :  "  There  is  too  much,  a  great  deal  too  much,  upon 
that  young  heart  I" 

"  Yes,"  said  Agnes,  "  Miss  Julia  has  been  troubled  ever  since 
I  came  home." 

"How  do  you  know,  Agnes  ?"  inquired  Uncle  John,  in  surprise. 

"I  know  by  her  voice.  Uncle  John;  it  is  always  sad." 

"  Her  voice  never  was  gay  and  loud,  like  Eva's,  Agnes." 

"  I  know  that,  sir.  It  was  never  like  Eva's,  but  neither  was  it 
like  what  it  is  now.  She  is  troubled  about  something,  and  I  am 
very  sorry.     Miss  Julia  is  too  good  to  be  troubled." 

"  But,  Uncle  John,"  said  Charles,  "  sadness  and  trouble  will 
not  account  for  her  appearance  and  manner  this  evening.  She 
was  ill  at  ease  for  some  reason,  and  seemed  more  so  whenever  I 
attempted  to  talk  to  her ;  and  if  I  thought  that  my  presence  or 
society  had  anything  to  do  with  her  evident  discomfort,  I  would 
certainly  spare  her  any  repetition  of  it  in  future." 

"Confess,  Charles,"  said  Uncle  John,  laughing,  "that  your 
visit  has  disappointed  you.  You  hoped  to  have  an  opportunity 
for  a  tete-a-tete,  but  we  were  all  in  your  way,  and  either  too 
stupid  to  understand  your  wishes,  or  too  selfish  to  deny  our- 
selves for  their  gratification,  and  now  in  your  vexation  you  want 
to  throw  all  the  blame  upon  the  lady  herself.  It  is  not  fair, 
Charles;  she  was  not  to  blame." 

"  I  would  like  to  think  so,  sir,  and  would  gladly  believe  that 
she  is  as  disappointed  as  I  confess  myself  to  be ;  but  this  is  not 
so.  I  cannot  be  mistaken  in  the  evident  relief  expressed  in  her 
face  when  your  summons  put  a  sudden  end  to  the  only  real  con- 
versation that  I  have  had  with  her  this  evening." 

Uncle  John  knew  that  Charles  was  right.  He  did  not  know 
all,  but  he  very  well  knew  some  of  the  reasons  which  had  influ- 
enced her  thus  to  act ;  but  her  conduct  was  susceptible  of  no 
explanation  to  Charles,  and  so,  wishing  to  divert  his  thoughts 
from  a  subject  which  evidently  annoyed  him,  Uncle  John  said, 
pleasantly : 

"Wait  until  to-morrow,  and  perhaps  the  mood  will  change. 
*Varinm  et  mutahile,^  you  know,  Charles." 

"I  hoped  and  believed,  sir,  that  Miss  Cameron  was  one  of  the 
exceptions  to  the  poet's  rule.  I  did  not  know  that  she  was  sub- 
ject to  moods." 

"  Xor  is  she,  Charles.  You  are  right  there.  If  ever  you  see 
a  cloud  upon  her  face,  you  may  rest  assured  that  there  is  suffi- 


212  CAMERON    HALL. 

cient  cause  for  it.  But,  by- the- way,"  he  added,  determined  now 
to  change  the  conversation,  "  before  I  forget  it,  let  me  say  that 
if  it  ever  comes  in  your  way  to  do  anything  for  Walter  Cameron, 
I  specially  commend  him  to  you.  His  regiment  belongs  to  the 
same  brigade  as  yours,  and  it  is  just  possible  that  some  time  or 
other  you  may  encounter  him  and  be  able  to  do  something  for 
him.  If  you  ever  have  an  opportunity,  seek  him  out.  I  ask  it 
as  a  personal  favor;  you  won't  forget  it,  Charles?" 

"  I  will  not,  sir.     If  it  is  possible,  I  will  search  him  out." 

That  night,  when  the  rest  of  the  household  were  all  asleep, 
Julia  sat  by  her  window  for  hours.  The  few  words  which  Charles 
had  spoken  to  her  in  the  grove,  together  with  his  tone  and  man- 
ner, had  assured  her  what  next  he  would  say  unless  she  posi- 
tively forbade  it.  She  was  herself  altogether  as  much  dissatisfied 
with  her  conduct  toward  him  to-day  as  he  had  been,  and  she  now 
determined  to  look  calmly  into  her  own  feelings,  bring  them  under 
control,  and  decide  how  she  was  to  meet  him  on  the  morrow. 
But  she  found  it  no  easy  task.  Her  heart  throbbed  fast  and 
painfully.  No  reasoning  with  herself,  no  conviction  that  thus  it 
must  not  be,  and  no  determination  that  thus  it  should  not  be, 
could  still  its  tumultuous  beating.  For  once,  her  self-control 
utterlv  failed  her.  She  sat  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands, 
and,  after  vainly  trying  to  think,  she  at  last  gave  it  up,  and  all 
that  she  was  conscious  of  for  a  long  time  was  the  thought  that 
happiness  was  within  her  reach  but  denied  to  her  grasp.  She 
longed  wearily  and  painfully  for  a  mother.  She  wanted  some- 
body to  whom  she  could  unburden  herself.  There  w^ere  depths 
in  her  nature  which  her  light-hearted  sister  could  not  fathom, 
and  Julia  knew  that  Eva  would  not  understand  her  if  she  were 
to  lay  her  heart  open  to  her  now.  And,  besides,  she  needed  not 
only  sympathy,  but  guidance  and  counsel  as  well,  and  never  in 
all  her  life  before  had  she  thought  so  yearningly  of  that  mother 
who  was  sleeping  quietly,  all  unconscious  of  her  child's  necessi- 
ties and  longings. 

Then  Julia  remembered  Him  who  thinks  no  burden  of  the 
human  heart  too  insignificant  for  His  sympathy  and  help,  and  no 
ignorance  too  great  for  His  enlightenment.  She  sank  upon  her 
knees,  and  her  heart  found  a  voice  for  its  need,  and  an  expression 
of  its  wants,  in  the  church's  prayer: 

^^ Grant  that  we  may  both  perceive  and  know  what  things  we 
ought  to  do,  and  also  may  have  grace  and  power  faithfully  to 
fulfil  the  same." 

Reason  and  argument  had  failed  to  still  her  heart,  but  these 
few  simple  words  of  prayer  were  able  to  do  it.  She  arose  from 
her  knees,  and  tried  once  more  to  think  and  to  resolve,  and  this 


CAMERON    HALL.  213 

time  not  in  vain.  She  thonght  that  she  saw  her  duty  plainly 
now,  and  that  it  but  remained  faithfully  to  do  it.  She  believed 
not  only  that  it  was  right,  but  also  her  bounden  duty,  steadfastly 
to  resist  all  Charles  Beaufort's  advances.  She  felt  that  under 
existing  circumstances  she  could  not  marry  him,  nor  did  she  be- 
lieve that  he  would  desire  it  if  he  knew  all.  She  felt  that  however 
her  brother  might  himself  have  chosen  to  publish  his  infamy  to 
the  world,  yet,  as  his  sister,  she  could  have  neither  the  right  nor 
the  desire  to  do  so,  and  therefore  since  she  could  not  give  Charles 
a  reason  for  a  refusal,  it  was  doubly  binding  upon  her  to  prevent 
the  necessity  of  it.  Besides,  she  wanted  to  spare  him  the  pain 
of  one,  and  her  desire  was  so  to  act  as  to  do  justice  both  to  her- 
self and  him,  to  exonerate  herself  from  the  imputation  of  heart- 
lessness  and  capriciousness,  and  yet  to  show  him  plainly  that 
they  never  could  be  any  more  to  each  other  than  they  were 
now. 

Julia  believed  that  her  purposes  had  so  completely  failed  to- 
day because  she  had  not  had  sufficient  time  for  reflection.  The 
whole  emergency  had  been  so  suddenly  precipitated  upon  her, 
her  meeting  with  Dr.  Beaufort  had  been  so  unexpected,  and  her 
great  grief  coming  thus  into  palpable  collision  with  the  thought 
of  him,  and  seeming  to  sever  her  from  him  by  such  an  impassable 
gulf, — all  this  had  combined  so  to  unnerve  her  that  she  had 
been  powerless  to  act  out  what  she  believed  to  be  right.  Xow, 
however,  she  had  had  time  both  to  think  and  to  resolve,  and  also 
to  ask  for  help  to  do  right;  and  when  at  last  she  laid  herself 
down  to  rest,  wearied  alike  in  mind  and  body  with  the  conflict, 
she  fell  asleep  with  the  pleasing  belief  that  to-morrow  she  should 
be  enabled  to  meet  him  calmly,  and  in  all  respects  to  treat  him, 
not  as  her  heart,  but  as  her  conscience  dictated. 

The  morrow  came.  She  met  Charles  as  of  old,  with  a  quiet 
smile;  but  her  purpose  almost  faltered  when  she  felt  the  unequivo- 
cal pressure  of  the  hand  with  which  he  greeted  her.  He  looked 
at  her  to-day  quite  as  much  surprised  as  he  was  yesterday.  Then, 
so  different  from  what  he  had  ever  seen  her  before  ;  now,  so  dif- 
ferent from  what  she  was  then,  she  seemed  indeed  an  inexplicable 
enigma.  And,  however  he  might  regret  to  believe  that  she  was 
not,  as  he  had  supposed,  an  exception  to  the  poet's  rule,  he  never- 
theless felt  a  compensation  in  the  fact  that  to-day  the  mood  of 
yesterday  had  passed  away,  and  she  was  almost  her  former  self. 
Quiet,  and  disposed  to  be  silent  as  ever,  she  was  nevertheless 
placid  and  at  ease.  He  rejoiced  in  the  result,  but  he  little 
dreamed  of  the  effort  that  so  calm  an  exterior  had  cost  her.  Few 
others  could  thus  have  controlled  themselves ;  but  Julia  had  so 
accustomed  herself  to  it  in  smaller  matters,  that  even  now,  the 


214  CAMERON    HALL. 

attainment,  though  difficult,  was  not  impossible.  She  mingled 
pleasantly  in  the  conversation  all  day.  There  was  no  abstraction, 
no  preoccupation  of  thought  as  there  had  been  the  day  before. 
She  watched  strictly  and  carefully  over  herself,  and  only  once 
was  for  an  instant  thrown  off  her  guard. 

She  was  talking  about  Walter,  and  had  requ'ested  for  him,  as 
Uncle  John  had  done  before,  Charles's  friendship,  and  care  if  he 
should  need  it. 

"  It  has  been  already  promised  to  Uncle  John,"  he  replied, 
"  but  now  the  promise  will  be  doubly  binding ;  now  it  will  be 
sacred,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  so  low  that  none  heard  it  except 
herself 

For  an  instant  the  old  embarrassment  threatened  to  return,  as 
she  suddenly  remembered  that  she  had  asked  a  favor  and  thereby 
accepted  an  obligation.  In  a  few  minutes,  however,  she  re- 
covered herself,  and  led  the  conversation  into  another  channel. 

And  so  the  day  wore  away :  pleasantly  to  Eva  and  her  father; 
regretfully  to  Uncle  John  and  Charles,  as  they  remembered  that 
two  out  of  the  three  allotted  days  were  gone  ;  and  wearily  with 
Julia,  who,  though  successful  in  accomplishing  her  purpose,  was 
nevertheless  tired  with  the  effort.  She  was  the  only  one  of  the 
party  who  saw,  without  regret,  the  lengthening  shadows  of  even- 
ing, and  was  pleased  when  the  time  of  departure  came. 

When  the  visit  was  over,  Charles  found  himself  again  disap- 
pointed in  not  having  enjoyed  a  single  moment's  private  con- 
versation with  Julia,  and  yet  he  did  not,  as  before,  blame  her. 
She  had  so  effectually  and  yet  so  skillfully  guarded  against  it, 
that  while  he  deplored  the  fact,  he  did  not  dream  that  she  had  so 
decreed  and  so  effected  it. 

Uncle  John  was  seated  in  the  buggy  ready  to  go.  Mr.  Cam- 
eron stood  by,  talking  to  him,  and  Eva  and  Julia  were  on  the 
veranda,  the  latter  leaning  against  a  column,  relieved  to  think 
that  this,  her  day  of  greatest  trial,  was  over  now.  Charles  offered 
his  hand,  and  said  ; 

"  I  suppose  that  I  shall,  of  course,  meet  you  ladies  at  church 
to-morrow  ?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  Eva,  "we  always  go.  Sister  would  think 
it  a  grave  misdemeanor,  if  not  a  crime,  to  be  absent  from  church 
without  a  very  good  excuse." 

"Not  the  last,  Eva,"  said  Julia,  smiling,  "but  certainly  the 
first." 

She  forgot  herself  for  the  first  time  during  the  day,  and  said, 
absently : 

"  Yes,  I  will  certainly  be  there.  I  need  the  church  service 
more  than  ever,  now!" 


CAMERON     HALL.  215 

"  Come  along,  Charles  !"  said  Uncle  John.  "  It  matters  not 
how  long  you  stay,  you  will  at  last  have  to  tear  yourself  away, 
and  you  might  as  well  do  so  at  once." 

Charles  looked  earnestly  in  Julia's  face,  as  if  he  expected  there 
to  read  what  her  words  meant.  His  look  aroused  her,  and  she 
turned  her  face  away,  but  not  before  he  had  seen  the  color  mount 
to  her  temples.  The  last  thing  that  Charles  saw,  as  he  drove  off, 
was  Julia  leaning  wearily  against  the  column,  and  he  went  away 
with  the  same  thought  in  his  heart  which  had  the  day  before 
found  utterance  in  the  question:  ""What  is  the  matter  with  Miss 
Cameron  ?" 

If  Julia  felt  the  need  of  the  church  service,  she  was  not  disap- 
pointed the  next  morning  in  its  adaptation  to  her  wants  and  ne- 
cessities. There  was  much  in  the  special  service  for  the  day  that 
was  suited  to  her  case.  In  the  Collect,  the  petition  for  "the 
Spirit  to  think  and  do  always  such  things  as  are  right,"  was  only 
the  expression  of  her  heart's  desire;  and  when  Mr.  Derby  an- 
nounced his  text,  "  Take  heed  unto  the  thing  that  is  right,  for  that 
shall  bring  a  man  peace  at  the  last,"  and  proceeded  to  show  how 
an  uncompromising  effort  to  know  and  do  the  right,  unswayed  by 
inclination,  undeterred  by  difficulties,  and  undismayed  by  sacri- 
fices, would,  in  the  end,  bring  a  peace  which  would  far  more  than 
compensate  for  the  difficulties  and  trials  in  the  way  of  its  attain- 
ment, she  was  almost  tempted  to  believe  that  he  was  preaching 
specially  for  her  comfort  and  instruction.  She  was  strengthened 
and  fortified  now,  and  hoped  much  from  the  soothing  influence 
of  the  holy  day,  and  the  privacy  of  her  own  quiet  home,  to  bring 
her  rest  and  peace.  But  the  privacy  and  quiet  she  was  not  to 
enjoy. 

After  service,  nothing  would  satisfy  Uncle  John  but  that  they 
should  all  go  home  with  him,  and  enjoy  their  last  dinner  with 
their  friend ;  and  Mr.  Cameron  agreed,  on  condition  that  after  the 
evening  service  they  should  all  adjourn  to  the  Hall. 

It  seemed  that  the  strength  of  Julia's  resolution  was  certainly 
to  be  tried  to  the  utmost;  but  all  that  she  could  do  was  patiently 
to  submit,  and  earnestly  to  struggle  during  this  the  last  day. 

She  was  as  successful  now  as  she  had  been  before  in  avoiding 
all  conversation  with  him  alone ;  and  when  she  found  herself, 
after  tea,  sitting  upon  the  veranda  at  home,  talking  with  all  the 
rest  in  a  social  circle,  and  upon  common  topics,  she  congratulated 
herself  upon  the  success  of  her  efforts.  But  her  congratulation 
was  premature,  for  this  time  there  was  opposed  to  her  a  determi- 
natiou  which  nothing  could  resist. 

Charles  had,  since  the  day  before,  been  quietly  awaiting  an 
opportunity  to  say  to  Julia  what  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  tell 


216  CAMERON    HALL. 

her,  but  the  opportunity  was  long  coming,  the  hours  were  rapidly 
slipping  away,  and,  at  last,  determined  to  wait  no  longer,  he  went 
up  to  Julia  and  said,  with  a  frankness  and  directness  that  admitted 
of  no  refusal : 

•'  Miss  Cameron,  will  you  oblige  me  by  walking  with  me  a  little 
while  upon  the  lawn  ?  The  night  is  beautiful,  and  the  lawn  looks 
very  inviting  for  a  stroll." 

She  was  taken  by  surprise,  but  she  could  not  refuse;  and  the 
openness  of  the  request  would  at  once  have  lulled  any  suspicions 
that  she  might  have  had  with  regard  to  his  purpose.  She  com- 
plied without  an  objection,  and  it  was  only  when  she  found  her- 
self alone  with  him  that  she  began  to  fear  lest  he  might  be  tempted 
to  say  something  which  she  would  rather  not  hear;  but  even  then 
she  did  not  suspect  that  such  was,  indeed,  his  sole  purpose  and 
design. 

Without  introduction  or  circumlocution,  he  spoke  directly  to 
the  point : 

"Miss  Cameron,  Julia,  listen  to  me,  and  hear  me  to  the  end 
before  you  answer  me.  Had  I  waited  for  encouragement,  or  had 
I  been  deterred  by  coldness,  this  avowal  would  not  have  been 
made,  at  least  not  now ;  but  to-morrow  I  leave  you,  perhaps  for- 
ever, and  I  cannot  consent  to  go  until  I  have  told  you  that  I  love 
you,  and  have  loved  you  for  two  years." 

"Do  not,  please,  do  not,"  she  interrupted;  but  he  gently  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  arm  that  rested  in  his,  saying : 

"Not  yet;  hear  me  first.  You  prevented  me  from  saying  this 
long  ago,  but  you  must  listen  to  it  now.  My  own  heart,  at  least, 
will  be  lighter  for  the  confession,  even  if  it  should  be  unwelcome 
to  you.  Julia,  it  is  not  vanity  for  me  to  believe  that  such  love 
as  mine  for  you  ought  to  and  would  satisfy  you.  It  is  a  sincere, 
honest,  manly  love,  which  would  value  the  heart  that  you  would 
intrust  to  its  keeping  as  above  all  price,  and  would  study  through 
life  to  make  you  happy ;  and  could  you  but  repay  that  love  by 
giving  me  yours  in  return,  -you  would  make  me  immeasurably 
happy.     Can  you,  will  you  do  it  ?" 

She  did  not  answer.  The  arm  that  rested  in  his  trembled  so 
that  he  grasped  it  firmly  to  support  her,  and  anxiously,  but  si- 
lently, awaited  an  answer;   but  none  came.     Presently,  he  said: 

"  Will  you  not  speak,  Julia  ?  Just  now  you  needed  to  restrain 
your  words,  and  now  you  refuse  them  utterance.  Can  you  not 
tell  me  something  ?" 

"Oh,  Charles — Dr.  Beaufort,  I  mean," she  stammered,  "indeed, 
indeed,  this  must  not,  this  cannot  be  !" 

He  waited  for  something  more,  but  it  did  not  come,  and  then 
he  asked,  sadly : 


CAMERON    HALL.  21T 

"Is  this  all  ?  Must  I  be  content  only  to  know  that  'it  must 
not,  cannot  be  ?'  and  will  you  deny  me  even  the  poor  comfort  of 
a  reason  ?  Tell  me  something,  even  if  it  should  be  that  your 
heart  is  not  your  own  to  give.  If  you  have  already  bestowed  it 
upon  another,  I  pray  God  that  he  may  value  the  treasure  as  I 
would,  and  guard  it  as  sacredly.  Speak,  say  something ;  this  si- 
lence, this  suspense  is  intolerable  !" 

"All  that  I  can  say,"  she  answered,  "is,  that  you  must  forget 
this  night ;  forget  all  that  you  have  said ;  forget  me  and  all  that 
concerns  me." 

"By  Heaven,  Julia  I"  he  exclaimed,  "you  demand  impossibili- 
ties. I  can  neither  forget  you  nor  what  I  have  said  to  you,  nor 
would  I  if  I  could !     What  do  you,  what  can  you  mean  ?" 

He  turned  round  so  that  the  moon  shone  full  upon  her  face, 
and,  looking  fixedly  at  her,  he  said,  in  a  bewildered  tone  : 

"I  know  not  what  to  think.  You  are  too  true  a  woman  to 
jest  where  so  much  is  at  stake.  Were  you  anybody  else,  I  should 
be  tempted  to  think  that  you  were  trifling." 

She  drew  her  arm  from  his,  and  stood  before  him  in  the  clear 
moonlight. 

"Charles,"  she  began,  "Dr.  Beaufort " 

"Away  with  formalities !"  he  said,  impatiently.  "  Call  me 
Charles,  call  me  anything,  if  you  will,  but  relieve  this  suspense." 

She  still  trembled  so  much  that  he  again  tried  to  take  her  arm ; 
but  she  resisted,  and,  leaning  for  support  against  a  tree,  said  with 
effort,  and  with  a  quivering  voice  : 

"  Charles,  it  is  now  your  turn  to  listen  to  me.  I  am  still  the 
honest,  truthful  woman  that  you  have  ever  believed  me — too  hon- 
est to  jest  and  trifle  at  such  a  time,  and  with  too  true  a  woman's 
heart  not  to  feel  deeply  pained  by  the  consciousness  of  the  pain 
that  I  am  obliged  to  inflict.  Believe  me,  I  would  have  spared 
you  this  if  I  could.  If  I  could  have  prevented  it,  you  never 
should  have  spoken  these  words  to  me;  but,  as  it  is,  I  can  only 
regret  it,  and  tell  you  that  for  what  I  now  say  I  have  a  reason, 
which,  if  I  could  disclose  it,  your  own  judgment  would  approve. 
It  is  better,  far  better  for  both,  that  these  feelings  should  be 
crashed  in  the  bud  ;  they  can  never  bring  either  of  us  anything 
but  sorrow  and  pain,  for — "  she  hesitated,  and  even  in  the  moon- 
light he  could  see  the  pallor  which  overspread  her  face, — "for  be- 
tween you  and  me  there  is  an  insurmountable  barrier.  I  cannot 
remove  it,  nor  can  any  other  human  being,  nor  can  my  lips  reveal 
it.  You  must  be  content  to  know  that  it  is  insurmountable,  and 
that  you  yourself  would  deem  it  so  if  you  knew  what  it  was." 

"  Strange  !  very  strange  !"  he  murmured.  "  Why  this  barrier 
now,  Julia  ?     It  did  not  exist  in  our  former  intercourse,  or  if  it 

19 


218  CAMERON    HALL. 

did,  you  ignored  it  then.  Tell  me,  tell  me,"  he  entreated,  "  what 
do  you,  what  can  you  mean  ?" 

"Ask  me  no  more,  Charles,  this  is  all  that  I  can  tell  you  ;"  she 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  added,  extending  her  hand,  "  will  you 
believe  that  I  am  sincere  when  I  tell  you  that  from  my  inmost 
soul  I  am  sorry  for  the  pain  that  I  inflict;  will  you  believe  that 
I  could  not  help  it;  will  you  forgive  me,  and  will  you  seal  your 
forgiveness  by  granting  me  one  favor,  the  last  one  that  I  will 
probably  ever  ask  T)f  you  ?" 

"  Name  it.     I  can  refuse  you  nothing." 

"Will  you  promise  me  that  no  human  being  shall  ever  know 
what  I  have  said  to  you  to-night ;  neither  Uncle  John  nor  any- 
body else  ?" 

"  Xobody,"  he  answered,  "if  you  so  decree  it." 

They  walked  along  several  minutes  in  silence,  and  then  he  said, 
earnestly  and  sadly: 

"And'  have  you  nothing  more  to  say,  Julia  ?  If  I  may  not 
know  why  I  am  thus  dismissed,  may  I  not  have  the  consolation 
of  knowing  that  if  you  cannot  accept  the  love  that  I  have  offered 
you,  you  at  least  do  not  spurn  it  ?  that  if  I  cannot  occupy  the 
place  in  your  heart  that  I  desire,  I  may  yet  be  remembered,  if  not 
with  affection,  at  least  with  interest  ?  Will  not  your  thoughts 
sometimes  follow  me  with  sympathy  into  those  scenes  of  blood, 
and  carnage,  and  suflfering,  which  will  henceforth  make  up  ray 
life  ?  Will- you  not  sometimes  pray  for  me  ?  sometimes  wonder 
if  I  am  still  spared  to  fulfill  my  country's  mission,  or  if  I  sleep  in 
a  forgotten  grave  ?" 

"  Oh,  Charles,  Charles,"  she  entreated,  "  spare  me  !  You  little 
know  how  much  1  am " 

"  Suffering,"  she  was  about  to  say,  but  she  checked  the  un- 
spoken word,  although  her  face  revealed  it  plainly  enough. 

She  paused  a  moment,  as  if  trying  to  collect  her  thoughts,  and 
then  said,  in  painful  perplexity : 

"  If  I  only  knew  what  it  was  right  to  say !  Surely  it  cannot 
be  wrong  to  tell  you  more;  to  tell  you  that  if  I  cannot  marry 
you,  I  at  least  can  and  will  think  of  you,  and  pray  for  you  every 
day  of  your  soldier  life  !" 

"  Thank  you  for  that  promise,  Julia !  Thank  you  for  that 
much  of  comfort  I  And  now,  will  you  not  answer  me  one  more 
question?  will  you  not  tell  me  if  you  refuse  me  because  you  love 
and  are  promised  to  another  ?" 

She  thought  a  moment,  and  then  onswered: 

"  It  cannot  be  wrong  to  afford  you  this  poor  satisfaction  ! 
No,  Charles,  this  is  not  the  difficulty,  and,  what  is  more,  I  can 
safely  promise  that  it  never  will  be.     I  expect  to  live  and  die 


CAMERON    HALL.  219 

Julia  Cameron.    This  is  all  that  I  can  tell  you ;  for  the  rest,  you 
will  have  to  trust  my  judgment  and  truthfulness." 

"In  any  other  matter  that  were  easy  enough  to  do;  but  in 
something  which  so  nearly  concerns  my  own  happiness,  I  would 
very  much  like  to  have  the  difficulties  submitted  to  the  decision  of 
my  own  judgment.  And  now,  Julia,  one,  only  one  more  ques- 
tion. You  have  confessed  that  you  do  not  love  another;  is  it 
because  you  cannot  love  me  that  you  now  send  me  away  ?  May 
I  not  ask  this  one  question  ?"  * 

Her  heart  throbbed  violentlv,  and  the  blood  rushed  to  her 
temples,  but  with  a  strong  effort  she  answered,  quietly : 

*'No,  Charles,  you  may  not  ask,  neither  may  I  answer,  any 
more  questions." 

"  You  do  not  say  no  !"  he  exclaimed,  gladly.  "  Julia,  I  must, 
I  will  hope  !  I  shall  live — and  it  may  be,  alas !  die — in  the  hope 
that  you  will  still  be  mine,  that  we  may  remove  or  perhaps  out- 
live this  obstacle,  and  our  destiny  may  yet  be  the  same !" 

"Do  not,  Charles,"  she  said,  earnestly,  "do  not  indulge  any 
such  hope,  for,  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  it  can  only  end 
in  disappointment.  I  speak  truthfully  when  I  say  that  no  hu- 
man being  can  remove  the  obstacle  that  separates  us,  and  that  as 
long  as  it  exists  I  cannot  marry  you.  And  now  you  must  never 
renew  this  subject,  never  again  allude  to  this  night.  Let  us  try, 
Charles,  to  be  friends,"  she  added,  extending  her  hand,  "kind 
friends,  if  we  may  not  be  anything  more  to  each  other !" 

"  This  is  not  what  I  asked,"  he  said,  grasping  the  extended 
hand;  "but  if  I  may  not  have  Julia  Cameron  for  my  wife,  still  I 
cannot  but  prize  her  as  my  friend.  God  bless  you,  Julia !  God 
ever  bless  and  keep  you  I  I  may  not  marry  you,  but  I  cannot, 
help  loving  you.  Julia,"  he  added,  earnestly  and  solemnly,  "I 
love  you  now,  and  I  will  love  you  until  I  die." 

Respectfully  and  tenderly  he  bent  down  and  kissed  the  hand 
which  he  held  in  his  own,  and  preventing  her,  as  she  tried  to 
extricate  it  from  his  grasp,  he  still  held  it,  and  said : 

"  You  have  refused  r^e  one  request  to  night,  the  one  whose 
denial  will  darken  my  whole  life ;  perhaps  you  cannot  find  it  in 
your  heart  to  deny  me  another.  Will  you  give  me  the  little 
prayer-book  that  I  saw  in  your  hand  at  church  to-day  ?" 

"Not  that,  but  a  better  one;  and  I  thank  you  for  a  request 
that  it  gives  me  so  much  pleasure  to  grant." 

"I  do  not  want  a  better  one,  Julia.  I  want  that  one  par- 
ticularly." 

"  Whv,  Charles?" 

"  Promise  me,  and  I  will  tell  you.     Will  you  give  it  to  me  ?" 

"Yes." 


220  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  I  want  it  because,  the  day  after  your  arrival  at  the  Springs, 
when  we  were  strangers,  we  sat  together  at  a  Sunday  morning 
service  in  the  ball-room.  I  saw  that  book  in  your  hand,  a  con- 
trast, in  its  worn  and  well-used  appearance,  to  the  velvet  and 
gilt,  the  embossed  morocco,  and  clasped  books,  in  the  hands  of 
others  around,  and  as  great  a  contrast  too  in  the  reverent  way  in 
which  it  was  used,  and  in  the  earnestness  and  sincerity  with  which 
its  words  were  uttered." 

"  Charles,"  she  replied,  "if  I  had  known  this,  I  wou^d  not  have 
promised  you  that  book.  Your  own  sense  of  right  must  tell  you 
how  unwise  it  is,  to  say  the  least,  to  do  anything  to  encourage 
and  foster  these  feelings.  If  it  were  possible,  it  would  be  better 
for  your  happiness  to  forget  everything  that  has  occurred  this 
night.     Take  my  advice:  let  me  give  you  another  book." 

"  Positively,  no.  You  have  promised  me  that,  and  I  will  not 
consent  to  exchange  it." 

As  they  were  returning  to  the  house,  he  said : 

"Will  you  write  to  me  sometimes,  Julia?  I  do  not  ask  such 
a  letter  as  I  would  like  to  have,  but  I  would  be  thankful  for  as 
cold  a  one  as  you  would  deem  it  best  to  write.  It  would  be 
something  to  look  forward  to." 

"I  cannot  do  it,  Charles.     It  would  not  be  right." 

"May  I,  then,  occasionally  write  to  you?  I  will  promise, 
upon  the  honor  of  a  man,  not  to  write  one  word  which  your 
brother  might  not." 

How  she  longed  to  say  with  her  lips  the  "yes,"  for  which  her 
heart  pleaded  ;  but  she  only  replied,  quietly : 

"  'No,  Charles,  it  is  better  not." 

"  Then  may  I  not  send  you  a  message  sometimes,  in  my  letters 
to  Uncle  John,  and  receive  now  and  then,  through  them,  some 
word  of  friendly  remembrance  ?" 

But  still  the  answer  came,  firm,  but  sad : 

"No,  it  must  not  be." 

Blessings  and  good  wishes  had  been  exchanged,  and  the  last 
farewells  had  been  spoken.  Julia  stood  a  little  apart,  holding  in 
her  hand  the  book  that  she  had  promised,  and  awaiting  her  turn 
to  speak  the  painful  word.  She  heartily  wished  it  over,  for  she 
had  already  been  taxed  to  the  extent  of  her  endurance,  and  she 
greatly  feared  lest  at  the  last  her  self-control  might  fail  her. 

He  took  the  book  from  her  hand,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone : 

"  I  must  not  write,  I  must  not  even  send  a  message,  but  I  will 
come.  This  you  shall  not,  you  cannot  prevent.  Some  time, 
when  I  can  be  spared  for  a  day  or  two,  I  will,  I  must  see  you. 
God  bless  you,  Julia!" 


CAMERON    HALL.  221 

He  pressed  her  hand,  and  looked  earnestly  into  her  face,  as 
she  answered : 

"  God  bless " 

Her  firmness  all  gave  way,  and  with  a  sob  she  turned  away, 
rushed  into  the  house,  and  locked  herself  in  her  own  room. 

Julia  was  not  given  to  tears,  but  she  had  imposed  upon  her 
fortitude,  during  the  last  two  days,  a  heavier  burden  than  it  could 
bear.  She  had  struggled  successfully  until  the  time  for  strug- 
gling was  over,  but  though  a  conqueror,  she  was  still  exhausted 
with  the  conflict.  Worn  out  and  helpless,  she  threw  herself  upon 
the  bed,  and  sobbed  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  All 
her  pent-up  feelings  now  broke  forth  in  a  flood,  which,  in  the 
solitude  and  unrestraint  of  her  own  chamber,  she  allowed  to 
sweep  unchecked  over  her  soul. 

*'He  loves  me,"  she  thought,  passionately,  "and  God  only 
knows  how  with  soul  and  strength  I  love  him  in  return,  and  yet 
I  have  sent  him  away  perhaps  forever,  without  one  loving  word, 
without  permission  to  write  or  send  a  message,  without  promise 
of  a  cheering  letter,  or  a  comforting  word  to  refresh  him  when 
he  is  weary  and  heart-sick,  in  the  midst  of  danger  and  suffering  I 
He  is  gone  with  the  assurance  that  we  must  always  be  to  each 
other  just  what  we  are  now;  gone  with  nothing  but  the  meager 
promise  that  I  would  sometimes  remember,  sometimes  pray  for 
him !  He  is  gone  to  risk  and  it  may  be  to  lose  his  life  for  his 
country,  for  his  home,  for  me;  he  asked  and  was  refused  a  kindly 
message !  I  have  denied  him  what  I  would  gladly  give  to  the 
most  degraded  soldier  in  the  Confederate  armyl" 

In  her  excitement,  she  exclaimed  aloud : 

"Oh !  if  I  could  only  recall  him,  I  would  tell  him  all;  tell  him 
that  I  love  him  better  than  ray  life,  tell  him  that  I  bear  a  dis- 
honored name,  and  love  him  far  too  well  to  wish  to  link  it  to  his 
own  1  Even  to  see  him  shrink  from  me  as  from  a  contaminated 
thing,  would  be  less  intolerable  than  this  life  of  hypocrisy  to 
which  I  have  condemned  myself!  How  shall  I,  how  can  I  hide 
from  him,  from  the  world,  the  love  with  which  my  heart  is  throb- 
bing and  bursting  ?  And  is  it  right  to  assume  an  indifference 
which  I  do  not  feel,  against  which  my  whole  soul  rebels  ?  I  did 
not  deal  truly  with  him;  I  kept  back  from  him  what  he  had 
a  right  to  know.  Rather  than  tell  him  of  my  brother's  infamy,  I 
have  sent  him  away  without  explanation,  I  have  refused  him  the 
poor  consolation  of  knowing  that  if  I  could  not  marry  him,  at 
least  I  could  and  did  love  him  with  heart  and  soul !  Oh,  George, 
George  1  how  has  your  treachery  blighted,  not  only  the  name, 
but  the  hopes  and  the  happiness  of  every  Cameron  I" 

19* 


222  CAMERON    HALL. 


CHAPTER  XYII. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  twenty-second  of  July.  Along  the 
electric  wires  had  sped  to  the  remotest  corner  of  the  Confederacy 
the  result  of  the  first  great  battle  of  the  Southern  revolution,  and 
the  heart  of  the  nation  throbbed  high  with  hope  and  gratitude,  as 
it  drank  in  the  tidings  of  the  victory  upon  the  plains  of  Manasses. 
The  first  impulse  everywhere  was  that  of  thankfulness  and  exulta- 
tion ;  the  next,  was  the  sickening  fear  of  every  heart  lest  the  vic- 
tory should  have  been  purchased  at  the  price  of  blood  dearer 
than  its  own,  at  the  sacrifice  of  a  life  which  it  would  gladly  have 
given  its  own  to  save. 

The  telegraph  office  at  Hopedale  had  been  crowded  all  day. 
Anxious  faces  were  gathered  there,  traced  with  lines  of  dread 
and  suspense,  as  one  and  another  received  the  slip  of  paper,  so 
small,  and  yet  laden  with  relief  or  agony,  as  husband,  son,  brother 
was  pronounced  safe,  wounded,  or  dead.  Mr.  Cameron  and  Uncle 
John  had  been  there  since  early  in  the  morning,  but  as  yet  there 
were  no  tidings  either  from  Charles  or  Walter.  As  the  day  wore 
on,  their  anxiety  increased,  though  neither  acknowledged  it  to  the 
other;  but  each  thought  that  if  both  were  safe,  one  or  the  other 
would  have  telegraphed.  At  dark,  they  left  the  office,  and  went 
to  Uncle  John's  to  tea,  purposing  to  return  immediately  after 
and  await  the  tidings.  When  they  passed  the  cottage,  Grace 
was  leaning  upon  the  gate,  with  Agnes  at  her  side. 

"I  have  waited  so  long  and  so  anxiously  for  you,"  she  said, 
"hoping  that  you  would  pass  this  way.  Any  news  from  Walter 
or  Dr.  Charles  ?" 

Uncle  John  shook  his  head  in  silence,  and  Agnes  said  : 

"  Do  tell  us.  Uncle  John ;  we  want  to  hear  so  much." 

"  No  news  yet,  daughter."  I  am  going  again  to  the  office, 
after  tea,  and  if  I  hear  anything  I  will  call  and  tell  you." 

"  Don't  forget,  Uncle  John.  Mother  and  I  will  be  very  lonely 
to-night,  for  I  cannot  even  play  the  organ  now.  This  has  been 
the  longest  day  that  I  ever  spent.  How  much  longer  must  we 
wait  to  hear  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  daughter.  We  must  try  and  be  patient. 
The  time  seems  long  and  weary  to  others  as  well  as  to  you." 

While  Mr.  Cameron  and  Uncle  John  were  silently  drinking 
their  tea,  they  were  startled  by  a  violent  ring  at  the  hall  bell. 


CAMERON    HALL.  223 

Uncle  John  hastened  to  answer  it  himself,  and  as  he  recognized 
the  well-known  envelope,  he  felt  for  an- instant  as  if  he  would 
fall.  His  hands  trembled  so  that  he  could  scarcely  break  the  seal, 
and  when  he  saw  the  words  "  Walter  safe,"  and  Charles  Beau- 
fort's signature,  his  eyes  filled  so  that  he  could  read  no  more. 
He  hastened  with  it  to  Mr.  Cameron,  relieving  his  suspense  at 
once  by  exclaiming,  as  he  reached  the  door: 

"Thank  God  I    Thank  God  !" 

Mr.  Cameron  read  it  over  and  over,  as  if  almost  afraid  to  be- 
lieve the  good  tidings,  and  then  sat  for  some  minutes  holding  the 
slip  of  paper  in  his  hand  in  silence.  Then,  suddenly  recollecting 
himself,  he  arose  hastily,  saying  : 

"  I  must  go  at  once.  Poor  girls  1  they  have  had  a  long,  anx- 
ious day." 

He  laid  the  paper  on  the  table,  and  Uncle  John  took  it  up  and 
exclaimed,  as  he  read  it, — "  Why,  what  is  all  this  ?" 

"  Have  you  not  read  it  before,  sir  ?"  asked  Mr.  Cameron. 

"  No.  My  old  heart  and  my  old  eyes  filled  up  so  when  I  saw 
that  the  boys  were  both  safe,  that  I  could  not  read  any  more 
just  then ;  but  indeed  I  must  bestir  myself  now.  It  will  be 
more  than  I  can  do  in  one  day,  I  am  afraid,  to  make  prepara- 
tions in  this  little  village  for  the  accommodation  of  so  many 
wounded." 

"  You  may  send  as  many  out  to  the  Hall,  sir,  as  you  please,  if 
the  distance  from  town,  and  consequently  from  surgical  attend- 
ance, will  be  no  objection.  The  house  is  large,  and  the  weather 
warm,  so  that  they  can  be  accommodated  with  cots." 

They  left  the  house  together,  and  went  on  their  separate 
errands, — Mr.  Cameron,  with  a  lightened  heart,  to  bear  the  wel- 
come tidings  to  his  daughters ;  and  Uncle  John,  first  to  relieve 
Grace  and  Agnes,  as  he  had  promised,  and  then  to  see  what 
could  be  done  to  provide  for  the  comfort  of  the  expected  suf- 
ferers. 

Drearily  and  heavily  the  day  had  passed  at  the  Hall.  Eva, 
whose  accustomed  excitability  and  impulsiveness  were  now  goaded 
on  by  suspense,  had  been  almost  frantic  all  day.  She  had  had  be- 
fore but  little  foreboding  or  anxiety  on  her  brother's  account,  for 
she  was  too  unfamiliar  with  war  to  realize  his  danger;  but  now 
that  the  fierce  battle  which,  prospectively,  had  seemed  to  her  a 
dim  and  shadowy  thing,  was  indeed  a  reality,  an  accomplished 
fact,  her  excited  imagination  conjured  up  a  thousand  horrors, 
with  which  she  tortured  herself  until  mind  and  body  were  alike 
exhausted.  She  had  walked  for  hours  up  and  down  the  parlor, 
up  and  down  the  hall,  up  and  down  the  veranda,  and  at  last, 
reckless  of  the  blazing  July  sun,  she  rushed  down  to  the  lawn- 


224  CAMERON    HALL. 

gate,  and  strained  her  eyes  to  see  if  in  the  distance  she  could 
not  recognize  her  returning  father.  But  nothing  relieved  the 
monotony  of  the  red,  dreary  road,  upon  which  the  sun  poured 
down,  without  tree  or  shrub  to  afford  a  shelter  from  its  scorch- 
ing rays.  She  waited,  and  looked,  and  hoped,  and  finally,  re- 
gardless of  everything  except  the  relief  of  her  torturing  suspense, 
along  that  burning  road  she  ran,  conscious  of  nothing,  thinking 
of  nothing,  except  to  hear  from  Walter.  When  she  reached  the 
middle  of  the  lane,  weak  with  excitement,  and  exhausted  by  the 
heat,  she  found  it  impossible  to  advance  another  step.  She  sat 
down  upon  the  roadside,  with  no  shade  to  screen  her  throbbing 
head,  which  ached  intensely.  Still  she  looked  and  watched  for 
her  faiher,  but  he  did  not  come ;  then  she  looked  all  around  for 
some  human  figure,  some  servant  in  the  adjoining  fields,  to  whom 
she  might  appeal  for  help,  but  nothing  was  to  be  seen.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  sickening  desolation  of  her  own  heart  was  re- 
produced upon  the  scene  around  her.  She  was,  however,  too 
restless  to  sit  still  long,  and,  growing  sick  and  faint,  she  de- 
termined to  try  and  get  home.  The  way  seemed  interminable, 
and  several  times  she  was  compelled  to  sit  down  and  rest,  but  at 
last  she  reached  the  gate.  The  two  enormous  oaks,  that  stood 
like  sentinels  one  on  each  side,  threw  their  sheltering  branches 
far  and  wide,  and,  lured  by  the  refreshing  shade,  the  tired  child 
threw  herself  down  upon  the  grass,  and  in  a  few  moments  found 
a  temporary  forgetfulness  of  her  troubles  and  anxieties  in  a  pro- 
found sleep. 

Her  quiet  but  not  less  anxious  sister  had  sufi'ered  as  severely 
as  herself;  but  with  Julia,  there  had  been  no  tears,  no  restless- 
ness, no  outburst  of  grief.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  unnaturally 
calm,  and  there  was  no  evidence  of  unwonted  excitement,  except 
in  the  lines  of  quiet  determination  around  her  mouth,  and  the 
almost  stern  resolution  expressed  in  her  eye,  as  if  she  were 
bracing  herself  to  receive  an  impending  blow.  Unlike  Eva,  this 
had  not  come  upon  her  with  the  suddenness  and  unexpectedness 
of  the  lightning  stroke.  She  had  accustomed  herself  to  reflect 
upon  the  dangers  to  which  her  loved  ones  were  exposed,  and 
while  she  had  prayed  constantly  and  earnestly  that  they  might 
be  spared,  yet  she  knew  that  the  blow  must  fall  somewhere,  and 
realized  that  she  had  no  more  right  than  others  to  expect  ex- 
emption from  its  crushing  weight.  She,  too,  had  a  heavier  bur- 
den than  her  sister.  The  fate  of  two  rested  upon  her  heart,  one 
of  whom  she  loved  with  almost  a  mother's  love,  and  the  other 
with  almost  a  wife's. 

Julia  felt  that  she  had  grown  much  older  in  the  past  few 
months,  that  she  was  beginning  to  experience  the  discipline  of 


CAMERON    HALL.  225 

life.  She  had  always  regarded  herself  as  prematurely  old,  and 
thought  that  her  position,  as  the  elder  sister  of  a  motherless 
family,  had  made  her  so,  and  had  familiarized  her,  even  in  child- 
hood, with  those  cares  and  anxieties  which  are  generally  not  laid 
upon  us  until  we  have  reached  maturity ;  but  she  now  felt  as  if 
she  had  never  before  known  the  meaning  of  the  words  anxiety 
and  care,  as  if  shQ  were  just  now  beginning  to  learn  what  was 
really  meant  by  the  burden  and  responsibilities  of  life.  The 
blight  upon  her  name,  the  disappointment  of  her  affections,  the 
burden  of  feeling  which  she  could  not  crush,  and  yet  must  for- 
ever conceal,  not  only  from  the  world,  but  also  from  him  who, 
she  thought,  had  a  right  to  know  it ;  and  now,  superadded  to  all 
this,  her  suspense  and  anxiety  about  brother  and  lover  formed, 
indeed,  a  burden  which  would  have  weighed  down  a  heart  more 
inured  than  hers  to  care  and  sorrow. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  a  month  had  passed  since  the  morning's 
dawn,  and  the  only  evidence  of  restlessness  in  her  manner  was 
the  frequent  glance  at  the  clock,  and  the  expression  of  disap- 
pointment when  she  saw  that  it  was  only  a  few  minutes  later 
than  when  she  had  looked  last.  The  evening  before,  the  tele- 
graph wires  had  conveyed  the  tidings  of  the  raging  battle,  and 
at  sunrise  this  morning  her  father  had  gone  to  town,  promising 
to  return  as  soon  as  he  heard  from  Walter.  Hour  after  hour  had 
passed,  and  still  he  did  not  come.  She  sat  and  thought,  for  she 
could  not  do  anything  else.  Even  her  effort  to  read  her  Bible 
lessons  had  been  fruitless,  and  the  painful  monotony  of  the  weary 
time  was  only  broken  by  the  occasional  appearance  at  the  door 
of  Mammy  Nancy's  anxious  face,  and  the  same  question  repeated 
every  time  : 

"  Miss  Julia,  you  ain't  heard  nothin'  from  my  boy,  yet  ?" 
''No,  Mammy  Nancy,  not  yet.  Papa  has  not  come." 
At  last  three  o'clock  came,  the  usual  dinner-hour.  She  went 
out  on  the  veranda  and  looked  down  the  lawn,  but  her  father 
was  not  coming,  and  so  she  walked  down  to  the  gate  that  she 
might  look  up  the  road.  As  she  approached  the  gate,  she  was 
greatly  amazed  to  see  a  sleeping  figure  under  the  trees,  and  her 
surprise  was  turned  to  anxiety  when  she  found  that  it  was  Eva. 
She  went  up  to  her,  and  was  quite  alarmed  when  she  saw  her 
crimson  face,  and  felt  her  burning  forehead,  and  the  quick  pulsa- 
tion of  her  throbbing  temples.  She  found  some  difficulty  in 
awakening  her,  but  at  last  succeeded,  and  assisted  her  to  the 
house,  where,  with  Mammy  Nancy's  help,  she  put  her  to  bed. 
Julia  could  not  find  out  where  Eva  had  been,  or  how  she  came 
under  the  tree,  for  the  moment  that  her  head  touched  the  pillow 
she  was  asleep  again. 


226  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Still  another  anxiety !"  thought  poor  Julia,  as  she  looked  at 
her  sleeping  sister  and  longed  for  her  father's  return.  She 
thought  that  the  summer  day  would  never  end ;  but  when  at  last 
it  was  sunset,  then  twilight,  then  quite  dark,  and  still  her  father 
came  not,  her  suspense  became  intolerable. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  her  listening  ear  caught  the  sound 
of  horse's  hoofs.  She  rose  quietly  from  Eva'^  bedside  ;  but  as 
soon  as  she  was  out  of  the  room,  her  limbs  kept  pace  with  her 
anxiety,  as  she  flew  down  stairs  and  reached  the  steps  of  the 
Teranda  just  as  her  father  was  dismounting. 

"  Safe,  my  daughter !"  were  the  only  words  that  he^uttered. 

The  sudden  reaction  was  too  great,  and  she  sank  upon  the' 
steps. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  child  ?''  inquired  her  father,  anxiously, 
as  he  lifted  her  up. 

"  Nothing,  papa,  except  that  I  have  been  so  anxious  all  day 
that  I  could  not  bear  any  more.     Did  Walter  telegraph  ?" 

"No,  Charles  Beaufort." 

Julia  was  thankful  for  the  supporting  arm  that  still  upheld  her, 
for  without  it  she  would  have  fallen  again. 

"  Here  is  the  telegram.  It  was  sent  to  Uncle  John,  but  he 
thought  that  you  girls  would  like,  with  your  own  eyes,  to  read 
the  good  news." 

In  her  inmost  soul  Julia  blessed  Uncle  John's  considerate 
kindness,  as,  standing  under  the  hall  lamp,  she  devoured  the  few 
words  of  the  precious  missive.  Charles  and  Walter  both  safe  I 
How,  in  comparison  with  this  great  deliverance,  all  the  other 
mercies  and  blessings  of  her  life  dwindled  into  insignificance  I 
She  spoke  not  a  word,  but  her  full  heart  went  out  in  fervent 
thanksgiving  as  the  tears,  which  anxiety  and  sorrow  had  but 
frozen  in  her  heart  now  melted  and  overflowed  in  silent  joy  and 
gratitude. 

"You  have  spent  an  anxious  day,  my  poor  child,"  said  her 
father,  kindly. 

"Yes,  sir;  the  most  anxious,  the  most  painful  one  of  my  whole 
life." 

"Thank  God,  it  is  over  now  1  But,  Julia,  indeed  you  must  go 
to  bed,  my  daughter,  for  you  are  so  tired  now  that  you  can  scarcely 
stand.     You  look  really  sick."  ^ 

"I  am  not  sick  now,  papa,  though  I  have  felt  so  all  day.  No 
cordial  was  ever  so  strengthening  as  was  that  blessed  telegram. 
But  Eva  is  sick,  if  I  am  not,  and  I  have  been  anxious  about  her 
all  day.     Come  up  stairs  and  see  her." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Julia?" 

She  told  him  where  she  had  found  her,  and  how  profoundly 


CAMERON    HALL.  227 

she  had  slept  all  the  afternoon,  and  Mr.  Cameron  hastened  up  to 
see  her.  She  still  had  a  high  fever,  and  her  father  stood  looking 
anxiously  at  her. 

"Poor  child!''  he  said,  compassionately.  "Her  light  heart 
does  not  bear  trouble  like  yours,  my  daughter." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  Julia's  head,  and  stood  and  looked,  first 
at  one  and  then  at  the  other,  and  the  father's  heart  was  full,  as  he 
read  in  both  the  effect  of  this,  their  first  acquaintance  with  the 
sorrows  of  war,  and  thought  how  light  it  might  be  in  comparison 
with  the  experience  yet  in  store  for  them.  He  heaved  a  sigh,  and 
turned  and  went  away. 

The  next  morning,  when  Eva  awoke,  she  was  confused  and  be- 
wildered. Her  sister  was  moving  quietly  about  the  room,  and 
Eva  watched  her  with  a  dull,  listless  gaze,  until  recollection  began 
gradually  to  return,  and  she  was  finally  aroused  to  a  full  and  per- 
fect consciousness  of  where  she  was,  and  of  the  events  of  yes- 
terday. Julia  did  not  know  that  she  was  awake,  until  she  was 
startled  by  a  quick,  decided  question. 

"Sister,  has  papa  come?" 

"Yes,  he  came  last  night." 

"And  Walter?" 

"Is  safe,  Eva." 

With  a  single  bound,  and  a  cry  of  joy,  the  impulsive  child 
sprang  from  the  bed,  and  before  Julia  knew  what  she  was  going 
to  do,  or  had  time  to  expostulate,  she  had  thrown  on  her  dress 
and  rushed  down  stairs.  She  met  Carlo  on  the  way,  stopped  to 
give  him  a  hearty  squeeze  and  tell  him  that  his  master  was  safe, 
and  then  burst  into  her  father's  room  to  hear  the  particulars.  Mr. 
Cameron  was  so  startled  by  her  excited  appearance,  and  the  un- 
expectedness of  her  coming,  that  for  an  instant  he  could  not  an- 
swer the  questions  that  she  began  rapidly  to  pour  out.  At  last, 
however,  she  was  fully  satisfied,  and  then  her  father  tried  to  con- 
vince her  of  her  imprudence,  in  thus  leaving  her  bed  and  giving 
way  to  such  excitement,  and  told  her  that  she  would  surely  induce 
a  return  of  fever. 

"Oh,  no,  papa!"  she  answered.  "I  never  was  better  in  my 
life  than  I  am  this  morning.  Trouble  and  anxiety  can  make  me 
sic'k,  but  joy  never !  I  thought  yesterday  that  I  would  certainly 
die,  and  I  really  do  believe  that  two  or  three  days  of  suspense 
like  that  would  kill  anybody  in  the  world." 

"And  yet,  my  daughter,  there  are  many  hundreds,  nay,  even 
thousands,  in  this  land  to-day,  who  are  suffering,  and  will  continue 
to  suffer,  for  days,  and  it  may  be  weeks,  or  even  months,  the  same 
torturing  suspense  that  you  found  it  so  hard  to  bear  for  a  single 
day.     Some  poor  fellows,  perhaps,  fell  unnoticed  upon  the  battle- 


228  CAMERON    HALL. 

field ;  some  are  lying  wounded,  suffering  too  much  to  think  of 
anything  except  their  own  agony,  and  with  no  friends  thoughtful 
enough  to  telegraph  their  condition  to  the  anxious  hearts  at 
home ;  some  are  prisoners,  and  their  fate  unknown ;  and  even 
among  those  who  escaped  unhurt  there  are  a  thousand  things,  in 
the  confusion  and  bustle  after  a  battle,  to  make  men  forget  or 
slow  to  perform  so  important  a  duty.  This,  my  child,"  said  Mr. 
Cameron,  sadly,  "this  is  war.^^ 

"Oh,  papal  when  will  it  be  over?  Will  not  this  one  battle  be 
enough  ?" 

"Ah,  my  child,  no  human  foresight  can  see  the  end  ;  this  is 
only  the  beginning  !  It  may  be  that  before  it  is  over  we  may  have 
many  experiences,  compared  with  which  the  suffering  of  yester- 
day may  be  but  the  dust  of  the  balance.  God  alone  knows,  Eva, 
what  is  still  before  us." 

The  light-hearted  child  heeded  not  her  father's  sad  words  and 
sadder  tone.  All  future  trouble  and  anxiety  were  merged  in  her 
present  happiness.  Walter  was  safe,  and  she  was  happy,  and  she 
answered  gaily  : 

"  Well,  it  will  at  least  be  some  time,  I  hope,  before  we  fight  an- 
other battle.  I  do  trust  that  we  have  whipped  the  Yankees  so 
badly  that  they  will  never  stop  running  until  they  land  in  the 
Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence." 

"  To  land  in  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence,  Eva,"  replied  her 
father,  smiling,  "would  be  as  difficult  an  achievement  for  Yankee 
ingenuity,  as  to  give  a  ball  this  week  in  Richmond  via  Bull-Run 
and  Manassas  has  proved  to  be  for  Yankee  valor." 

"  Bull-Run  I"  she  repeated,  laughing,  "  I  like  that  name ;  it 
tells  the  result  in  itself.  May  they  run  until  they  are  thoroughly 
tired  I     Tell  me  something  about  the  battle,  papa." 

"I  cannot,  Eva.  I  only  know  the  result,  that  it  was  a  decided 
victory  for  the  Confederate  arms.  We  will  have  to  wait  some 
days  before  we  get  the  full  particulars  in  the  newspapers." 

"Won't  you  be  anxious  to  read  all  about  it,  papa? 

"Yes,  my  daughter,  very.  I  am  truly  thankful  for  the  result  of 
this,  our  first  great  battle.  But,  Eva,  where  is  your  sister?  If 
she  is  ready  for  breakfast,  order  it  at  once,  for  I  want  to  go  to 
town  immediately.     I  must  help  Uncle  John  to-day." 

"I  am  sure,  papa,"  she  answered,  laughing,  "I  have  no  idea 
where  sister  is.  The  last  time  that  I  saw  her,  she  was  standing 
in  blank  amazement  and  with  uplifted  hands  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  at  the  idea  of  my  getting  up  and  running  down  stairs.  I 
would  not  be  surprised  if  she  were  standing  there  yet." 

At  the  breakfast-table,  Julia  said  : 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Eva  ?     Doesn't  your  coffee  suit  you  ?" 


CAMERON     HALL.  229 

"  It  is  as  good  as  usual,  I  suppose,  sister,  but  I  believe  that  I 
would  rather  have  a  cup  of  tea." 

The  tea  was  tried,  but  with  no  better  success.  She  was  bal- 
ancing her  spoon  listlessly  upon  her  cup,  as  she  said: 

"  Papa,  please  order  the  buggy  instead  of  the  horse,  and  take 
me  to  town  with  you.  I  do  want  so  much  to  see  somebody  and 
to  hear  something." 

"You  seem  to  be  quite  able,  Eva,  to  go  to  town,"  he  replied, 
looking  at  her  untasted  breakfast.  "I  rather  think  that  the  bed 
is  the  proper  place  for  you,  for  judging  from  your  cheeks  the 
fever  is  not  quite  gone  yet." 

"I  wish,  papa," said  Julia,  "that  you  would  order  Eva  posi- 
tively to  bed.     You  don't  know  how  sick  she  was  yesterday." 

"That  was  only  because  I  was  distressed  and  anxious,  sister." 

''  Whatever  might  have  been  the  cause,  Eva,  the  result  was  that 
you  were  very  sick,  and  that  I  was  very  uneasy." 

"  Oh  !  you  were  nervous  and  excited  yesterday,  and  exaggerated 
my  case.  Papa  certainly  will  not  condemn  me  to  bed  this  hot 
day,  when  I  am  perfectly  well,  because  he  thinks  that  I  ought  to 
be  sick  after  yesterday's  achievement !" 

"I  will  not  condemn  you  to  bed,  Eva,  unless  you  are  inclined 
to  go;  but  I  certainly  must  insist  upon  your  staying  in  the  house 
all  day.  Remember,"  he  added,  smiling,  "no  more  pleasant 
walks  up  the  lane  under  a  mid-day  sun." 

"You  might  spare  yourself  the  trouble  of  that  command,  papa, 
since  yesterday's  experience  of  a  noon-day  promenade  in  a  tree- 
less lane,  in  July,  will  probably  suffice  me  for  some  time.  Next 
time  I  will  be  more  patient,  since  I  find  that  so  far  from  hearing 
the  news  first  by  going  to  meet  you,  sister,  who  sat  quietly  in  the 
house,  heard  it  all  ten  or  twelve  hours  before  I  did." 

"  Yes,  Eva,  sometimes  your  haste  and  impetuosity  overleap 
themselves.  You  would  have  saved  yourself  some  suffering,  and 
your  sister  much  anxiety,  if  you  had  stayed  at  home  as  she  did." 

"  Oh,  papa,  that  would  have  been  impossible  !  If  I  had  been 
pent  up  in  the  house  all  day  yesterday,  I  should  have  died.  I 
needed  the  fresh  air." 

"And  the  hot  sun,  too,  I  suppose,  Eva." 

"  Yes,  papa,  even  that — anything  was  better  than  sitting  still 
and  waiting.  You  do  not  know  how  long  and  weary  the  hours 
are  when  you  are  waiting." 

"  Yes  I  do,  daughter,  for  I  too  was  waiting  yesterday ;  wait- 
ing all  day  at  the  office,  just  as  anxious,  and  just  as  weary,  as 
you  were  at  home.  You  are  right,  Eva.  To  sit  with  folded 
hands  and  to  wait  is  sometimes  the  hardest  thing  that  we  can 

20 


230  CAMERON    HALL. 

be  called  npon  to  do ;  and  yet,  my  daughter,  it  is  what,  at  some 
period  or  other  of  life,  we  all  have  to  learn  to  do." 

When  Mr.  Cameron  went  to  town,  he  found  Uncle  John  ex- 
tremely busy.  Mind  and  body  were  alike  engaged  and  interested; 
and  regardless  of  the  intense  heat  he  worked  hard  all  day.  In 
the  evening,  on  his  way  to  the  depot,  he  stopped  at  the  cottage. 

"  I  have  not  seen  you  all  day,  Uncle  John,"'  Agnes  said.  "  You 
have  been  so  busy  about  the  soldiers  that  you  have  forgotten 
me." 

"  Xot  forgotten  you,  my  daughter,  that  I  never  do ;  but  very 
busy,  Agnes,  too  busy  to  come  as  usual  to  see  you,  and  I  thought 
that  you  would  be  the  last  child  in  the  Confederacy  to  complain 
of  having  to  sacrifice  some  of  your  pleasure  for  the  sake  of  the 
soldiers.  I  have  been  trying  all  day  to  do  something  to  make 
the  poor  fellows  comfortable  when  they  come.  It  is  little  enough 
at  best  that  we  can  do  for  those  who  have  done  so  much  for  us !" 

"I  am  glad  that  you  made  the  arrangements,  Uncle  John,  for 
I  know  that  you  can  do  such  things  better  than  anybody  else.  I 
did  not  mean  to  complain,  just  now,  because  you  had  not  been 
here  to-day;  I  only  meant  to  say  that  I  had  missed  you." 

"And  I  have  missed  my  visit  as  well,  Agnes  ;  for  you  may  be- 
lieve me,  when  I  tell  you  that  as  far  as  mere  comfort  and  pleasure 
were  concerned,  I  would  much  rather  have  been  sitting  in  your 
cool  parlor,  listening  to  the  organ,  than  to  have  been  working  as 
hard  as  I  have  been  all  dav." 

ft' 

"You  look  tired,  Uncle  John,"  said  Grace. 

"And  so  I  am,  Grace.  Whenever  I  do  any  hard  work  or  take 
any  unusual  exercise,  I  am  quickly  reminded  that  I  am  not  so 
young  as  I  was  thirty  years  ago.  But  I  have  stayed  longer  than 
I  ought,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch.  "The  train  is  due  at 
seven,  and  I  will  scarcely  have  time  to  get  to  the  depot." 

He  hurried  away,  and  when  he  arrived  at  the  place  he  found, 
as  usual  on  such  occasions,  a  great  crowd  gathered  there.  Vehi- 
cles of  every  description  had  been  pressed  into  service  for  the 
transportation  of  the  wounded,  and  were  crowded  together  on 
each  side  of  the  track.  When  the  train  arrived,  the  sight  of 
mangled  and  suffering  humanity  was  enough  to  move  the  most 
unfeeling  heart.  It  was  soon  found  that  only  a  few  could  be  re- 
moved in  carriages.  The  rest  had  all  to  be  laid  upon  mattresses 
in  spring  wagons,  or  carried  on  litters  to  the  hospital.  This 
retarded  the  work  very  much,  and  it  was  ten  o'clock  before  they 
had  all  been  removed.  Among  the  rest  Uncle  John  noticed,  in 
one  of  the  cars,  a  gray-headed  man,  apparently  about  his  own 
age,  who  was  not  wounded,  but  seemed  to  be  very  sick.  He 
aroused  him  when  his  turn  came,  and  asked  him  if  he  was  able  to 


CAMEROJS^    HALL.  231 

ride  in  a  carriage.     The  sick  man  opened  his  eyes  languidly,  and 
said,  in  a  feeble  voice  . 

''Yes.  I  am  not  wounded,  I  am  only  sick.  Are  all  the  poor 
fellows  gone  ?" 

"^^ot  yet,  sir.  There  are  a  good  many  yet  to  be  removed. 
They  have  to  be  handled  so  gently,  that  it  is  slow  work." 

"Never  mind  me,  sir,"  said  the  sick  man.  "Attend  to  the 
others  first ;  they  are  in  great  agony,  but  I  am  not  in  any  pain. 
I  can  wait  very  well." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  fall  asleep  as  soon  as  he 
stopped  speaking,  and  Uncle  John  left  him  and  continued  his 
work.  At  last  he  was  done.  All  the  worst  cases  had  been  con- 
centrated at  the  hospital  for  the  convenience  of  the  surgeons,  and 
the  remainder  had  been  distributed  among  the  private  families  of 
the  town.  None  had  been  found  able  to  bear  a  ride  of  three 
miles,  so  that  none  had  been  sent  to  the  Hall.  Uncle  John  had 
sent  two  of  the  wounded  men  to  his  own  house,  and  the  sick  man 
was  now  the  last  one  to  be  disposed  of.  With  difficulty  they  half 
supported  and  half  carried  him  to  the  carriage,  where  he  sank 
back  exhausted  upon  the  cushions.  Uncle  John  jumped  in  after 
him,  and  bade  the  driver  take  them  home  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  physician  was  leaving  the  house 
after  his  visit,  Uncle  John  followed  him  to  the  door,  and  said : 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  patients,  doctor?" 
^  "The  wounded  men,  sir,  I  think,  will  both  get  well  without  any 
difficulty — their  wounds  are  painful,  but  not  dangerous  ;  but  the 
sick  man  will  die.  It  is  a  low  form  of  typhoid  fever,  and  he  is 
too  old  to  stand  it.  He  is  almost  worn  out  now.  I  wonder  how 
he  came  here  ?  He  could  not  possibly  have  done  anything  worse, 
than  with  this  disease  to  have  traveled,  at  this  season,  in  a  car 
crowded  with  wounded  men." 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  Uncle  John,  "how  he  came  here,  or 
anything  about  him.  He  was  apparently  more  dead  than  alive 
when  I  found  him  last  night  in  one  of  the  cars ;  and  he  is  so  weak 
and  exhausted  this  morning,  that  I  have  not  troubled  him  with 
any  questions." 

_"  Yesterday's  journey  was  enough  to  have  killed  him  outright. 
His  friends,  if  he  had  any,  had  very  little  judgment  even  to  have 
permitted  it." 

Uncle  John's  hands  were  now  indeed  full,  and  so  occupied  and 
interested  was  he  in  his  work,  that  the  days  were  quite  too  short 
for  the  duties  that  he  imposed  upon  himself.  Every  day  he  went 
to  the  hospital  to  learn  what  was  needed,  and  to  see  that  it  was 
supplied,  and  to  speak  those  few  words  of  kindly  sympathy  which 
cost  the  speaker  so  little,  and  are  so  refreshing  to  the  homeless. 


232  CAMERON    HALL. 

friendless  sufferer.  He  never  came  empty-handed,  but  always 
brought  either  some  little  delicacy,  prepared  at  his  request  by 
some  lady  friend,  or  a  book  or  newspaper  with  which  to  beguile 
the  tedious  hours,  or  a  bouquet  of  bright  flowers,  which  spoke 
sweetly  of  home  to  hearts  longing  for  its  loving  faces,  its  sooth- 
ing comforts,  and  its  nursing  care. 

He  came  in  one  day,  and  going  up  to  a  cot  whereon  lay  a  robust, 
stalwart  man,  perhaps  a  little  past  the  meridian  of  life,  whose  leg 
had  been  amputated  two  days  before,  he  said  : 

"How  are  you  this  morning,  my  friend  ?  Are  you  able  to  read 
a  paper  to-day  ?  I  see  here  a  long  account  of  the  battle  in  which 
you  participated ;  perhaps,  if  you  are  not  in  too  much  pain,  you 
would  like  to  read  it." 

"I  can  read  at  least  a  little,  sir,  and  would  like  very  much  to  do 
so.    I  am  not  in  so  much  pain  this  morning  as  I  was  yesterday." 

Uncle  John  left  the  newspaper  with  him,  and  went  on  his  usual 
round  through  the  hospital.  As  he  passed  the  cot  again,  on  his 
way  out,  he  saw  the  paper  lying  beside  the  man,  and  on  his  face 
there  was  an  expression  of  deep  gloom.  He  went  up  to  him, 
and,  taking  his  hand,  said  kindly : 

"What  is  the  matter  ?    Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?" 

"Nothing,  sir,"  he  answered,  as  with  his  large  rough  hand  he 
dashed  the  moisture  hastily  from  his  eyes. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  opening  paragraph  of 
the  account  of  the  battle  of  Manassas,  "and  then  look  there!" 
pointing  to  the  sufferers  all  around  the  room.  "And  this  suffer- 
ing," he  added,  "  is  but  a  small  item  of  the  whole  !  I  was  on  the 
battle-field;  I  know  something  of  what  that  victory  cost !" 

The  paragraph  to  which  he  pointed  heralded  the  victory,  and 
bade  the  people  rejoice  that  so  signal  a  triumph  was  won  at  so 
trifling  a  cost — only  a  few -thousand  men!  "Only  a  few  thous- 
and/'^  A  few  thousand  souls  hurried  into  eternity !  A  few 
thousand  lives  cut  off  in  the  prime  and  vigor  of  manhood  I  A 
few  thousand  desolate  homes  !  A  few  thousand  widows  !  A  few 
thousand  helpless  orphans !  A  few  thousand  bleeding  hearts ! 
"Only  a  few  thousand/"  Great  God  !  the  fearful  price  of  a  sin- 
gle victory !  The  thoughtless  world  hears  only  its  loud  shout  of 
exultation,  but  Thine  ears  and  Thy  compassionate  heart  listen  to 
its  wail  of  anguish  ! 

Uncle  John  read  in  silence,  and  then  looked  mournfullv  at  the 
mangled  limbs  and  suffering  faces  around  him.  There  was,  in- 
deed, even  in  that  single  village  hospital,  a  painful  discord  in  the 
glad  song  of  victory,  and  Uncle  John  felt  it  not  less  than  the  suf- 
ferer before  him.  After  a  moment's  silence,  he  pointed  sadly  to 
his  useless  stump,  and  his  voice  quivered  as  he  said : 


CAMERON    HALL.  233 

"I  could  have  borne  it  myself,  sir;  but  the  wife,  the  children 
at  home,  are  dependent  upon  my  arm  and  mv  limbs  for  their  daily 
bread!" 

For  this,  Uncle  John  had  no  reply;  but  the  wounded  man 
blessed  him  in  his  heart,  for  the  moistened  eye  which  met  his  own 
in  speechless  sympathy,  and  for  the  kind  pressure  of  the  hand, 
with  which  he  silently  turned  and  went  away. 

The  next  morning,  on  his  way  to  the  hospital,  he  met  Julia  and' 
Eva  just  going  in  the  gate  at  the  cottage.  Eva  had  brought  a 
magnificent  bouquet  for  Agnes,  who  dearly  loved  fragrant  flowers. 
Oleanders,  heliotrope,  geraniums,  and  mignonette  blended  their 
delicate  perfume  and  their  exquisite  beauty,  and  Uncle  John 
looked  admiringly  and  longingly  at  them. 

"Give  me  that  bunch  of  flowers,  daughter,"  he  said,  eagerly. 
"I  want  it  particularly." 

"I  have  promised  it  to  Agnes,  Uncle  John;  but  I  will  come  to 
town  again  this  evening,  and  bring  you  a  larger,  handsomer  one 
than  this." 

"But  I  want  that,  and  I  want  it  now.  Tell  Agnes  that  I 
knew  it  was  designed  for  her,  and  that  I  took  it  away  from  you. 
I  know  that  she  will  not  object." 

"  You  are  welcome  to  it.  Uncle  John,  if  you  will  take  the  re- 
sponsibility of  her  disappointment.    What  do  you  want  with  it?" 

"I  want  it  for  a  poor  young  fellow  in  the  hospital;  a  gentle, 
patient  youth,  who  has  enlisted  my  sympathies  greatly." 

He  took  the  flowers,  and  as  he  approached  the  bed  where  the 
youth  was  lying,  the  expression  of  suffering  relaxed  into  a  smile, 
and  the  languid  eye  brightened  as  he  saw  the  flowers. 

"Are  you  better  this  morning,  my  son  ?"  inquired  Uncle  John, 
cheerfully,  as  with  a  touch,  gentle  as  that  of  woman,  he  smoothed 
the  dark  hair  back  from  his  forehead. 

"  Yes,  Uncle  John,  better  than  I  was  yesterday,  though  I  suf- 
fered greatly  all  night.  May  I  smell  those  flowers  one  minute, 
sir,  if  you  please  ?"  and  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  them. 

"  :N'ot  one  minute  only,  Willie,  but  until  they  are  faded  and 
dead,  and  then  I  will  bring  you  some  more.  I  brought  them 
specially  for  you.     They  look  like  home,  don't  they,  my  son  ?" 

He  eagerly  grasped  the  bouquet,  and  carried  it  to  his  face, 
more  to  hide  his  tears  than  to  smell  the  flowers.  All  through 
the  weary  night,  when  he  was  quivering  with  pain  and  parched 
with  fever,  he  had  bitten  his  lips  to  keep  back  the  groans  which 
he  thought  it  unmanly  to  utter ;  and  his  thoughts  had  rushed  back 
to  his  home  in  the  sunny  South,  and  he  had  longed  for  his  mother's 
band  upon  his  forehead,  for  his  father's  look  and  voice  of  sym- 

20* 


234  CAMERON    HALL. 

pathy,  for  his  sister's  gentle  offices  of  love.  And  under  cover  of 
the  darkness,  he  had,  quietly  and  unobserved,  shed  those  tears 
which  he  would  not  have  his  comrades  see,  and  his  heart  had  re- 
lieved itself  of  its  burden,  and  this  morning  he  had  felt  himself  a 
man  again.  But  a  single  word  had,  like  a  rushing  flood,  swept 
away  all  his  supposed  manliness.  The  word  home  had  made  him 
a  child  again,  and  choking  down  a  sob,  he  turned  his  face  away 
and  buried  it  in  the  pillow. 

TJaele  John  stood  and  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  profound 
compassion,  and  then  passed  on  with  a  sigh.  He  could  not  go 
away  without  another  glance  at  Willie,  and  so,  after  he  had  seen 
all  the  others,  he  passed  again  by  his  bed.  Willie  motioned  him 
to  come  to  him,  and  taking  his  hand,  he  pressed  it  warmly,  and 
said,  glancing  at  the  bouquet: 

"  Thank  you  for  this  !  it  does  indeed  look  like " 

The  word  would  not  come;  but  Uncle  John,  seeming  not  to 
notice  it,  said,  cheerfully  : 

"  You  must  make  haste  and  get  better,  my  son.  Just  as  soon 
as  you  are  able  to  bear  a  ride  of  three  miles,  you  shall  exchange 
your  present  discomfort  for  pleasanter  lodgings ;  you  shall  go  to 
the  place  where  these  beautiful  flowers  grew,  where  you  shall 
have  a  fresh  bouquet  every  morning,  and,  what  is  better  still, 
two  sweet  human  flowers  to  keep  you  company;  one  as  bright  as 
that  oleander,  and  the  other  as  sweet  as  that  heliotrope.  How 
will  you  like  that,  Willie  ?" 

"  More  than  I  can  tell  you,  sir,"  he  answered,  his  face  bright- 
ening. Indeed,  Uncle  John,  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  could  ever  get 
well  here.  There  is  so  much  noise  and  confusion,  and  it  excites 
me  so  to  see  the  sufferings,  and  hear  the  groans  of  the  poor  fel- 
lows, that  sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  should  lose  my  senses.  I  would 
give  the  whole  world,  if  I  had  it,  for  one  day's  quiet." 

"And  you  shall  have  it,  my  poor  boy,"  said  Uncle  John, 
kindly,  "just  as  soon  as  the  surgeon  says  that  you  may  be  re- 
moved. Try  and  be  patient  a  little  longer;  try  and  be  a  soldier, 
Willie,  in  the  hospital,  as  you  were  on  the  field  of  Manassas; 
bear  up  bravely  a  little  while,  and  take  care  of  yourself,  and  I 
promise  to  take  you  to  a  place  where  I  warrant  that  you  shall 
find  some  compensation  at  least  for  your  present  discomfort  and 
suffering." 

"  You  will  not  forget  it,  Uncle  John  I"  he  said,  with  almost 
childlike  simplicity. 

"  Not  I,  Willie !  Some  day  soon,  before  you  dream  that  you 
are  well  enough  to  go,  I  will  have  a  comfortable  spring-wagon  at 
the  door,  and  your  mattress  shall  be  lifted  into  it,  with  you  lying 
upon  it  just  as  you  are  now,  and  I  myself  will  drive  you  out  to 


CAMERON    HALL.  235 

Cameron  Hall,  and  you  shall  be  compelled  to  admit  that  Uncle 
John  is  the  gentlest  driver  that  ever  took  the  reins." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  a  thousand  times  thank  you !" 

He  looked  at  the  bouquet,  and  asked  : 

"Did  you  arrange  it,  sir?" 

"  Never  did  such  a  thing  in  my  life,"  he  replied,  laughing.  "  I 
can  challenge  the  skill  of  any  gardener  in  the  world  in  trimming 
a  hedge  or  cutting  pea-sticks,  but  as  for  making  a  bouquet,  my 
fingers  are  too  awkward,  and  my  taste  not  delicate  enough^  for 
such  work  as  that.  No,  I  leave  all  my  bouquets  to  be  arranged 
by  those  two  human  flowers  that  I  was  telling  you  about  just 
now,  Julia  and  Eva  Cameron." 

"Who  made  this?"  he  inquired. 

"  Eva,  I  suppose ;  at  least  I  took  it  away  from  her  this  morn- 
ing to  bring  to  you." 

"  Would  she  think  it  presumptuous  if  I  were  to  ask  her  to  send 
me  one  occasionally,  while  I  stay  here  ?" 

"  Xo,  indeed.  I  will  engage  that  she  will  do  it  with  pleasure. 
You  wear  the  Confederate  gray,  Willie,  and  thus  far  you  have 
worn  It  honorably,  as  your  wound  testifies,  and  that  is  passport 
enough  to  the  kind  offices  of  Cameron  Hall.  I  will  tell  Eva, 
moreover,  that  you  are  just  about  the  age  of  Walter,  her  young 
soldier-brother,  and  you  will  see  what  a  magnificent  bunch  of 
flowers  you  will  have  to-morrow." 

"  Will  you  please  do  one  thing  for  me  before  you  ffo  ^" 
"Certainly."  J       &    - 

"Just  bring  a  tumbler  of  water  and  put  it  on  a  chair  by  my 
bed.     I  want  to  keep  my  flowers  fresh." 

^  Uncle  John  did  as  he  was  requested,  and  as  he  left  the  suffer- 
ing youth,  so  cheered  and  comforted  by  a  little  kindness  and  a 
few  flowers,  he  thought: 

"  How  little  it  sometimes  takes  in  this  world  to  give  pleasure  I 
How  many  opportunities  of  conferring  happiness  pass  unim- 
proved, because  to  our  blindness  they  seem  too  insio-nificant '" 

After  leaving  the  hospital  he  called  at  the  cotta|e,  hoping  to 
find  the  girls  still  there.  He  was  not  disappointed ;  and  after 
relating  the  mcident  of  the  morning,  he  told  Eva  Willie's  re- 
quest. She  assented  gladly,  as  he  had  expected,  and  promised 
not  an  occasional,  but  a  daily  bouquet,  so  long  as  he  should  be  in 
the  hospital. 

"  He  will  probably  be  there  a  long  time,  Eva ;  at  least  it  will 
be  many  months  before  he  will  be  fit  for  service  again,  if  he  ever 
is.  His  wound  was  an  exceedingly  dangerous  one,  and  for  several 
days  u  was  thought  impossible  for  him  to  recover,  and  even  now 
It  will  require  great  skill  and  care  to  bring  him  safely  through 


236  CAMERON    HALL. 

Poor  boy !  he  has  evidently  been  delicately  reared ;  and  often, 
when  I  have  stood  by  and  seen  him  shrink  involuntarily  from  the 
rough  touch  of  his  kind-hearted  but  unskillful  nurses,  I  knew  that 
he  was  contrasting  it  in  his  own  mind  with  the  gentle  care  which 
he  had  left  behind.  I  promised  him  this  morning,  Julia,  to  re- 
move him  to  the  Hall  just  as  soon  as  he  could  bear'the  ride,  and 
I  bespeak  for  him  now  the  very  best  care  and  attention  that  you 
girls  can  give  him." 

"Which  he  shall  certainly  have,  Uncle  John,"  she  replied. 
"  We  will  do  the  very  best  for  him  that  we  can." 

"  I  knew  it,  daughter,  when  I  told  him  that  he  should  go  there. 
He  is  so  uncomfortable  at  the  hospital,  and  so  worn  out  with  its 
noise  and  its  scenes  of  suffering,  that,  if  it  were  possible,  I  would 
remove  him  at  once.  I  have  been  not  only  interested  in  the 
youth,  but  amused  as  well.  He  evidently  thinks  it  unsoldierly  to 
admit  that  he  is  uncomfortable,  or  that  he  could  be  better  off  any- 
where else.  I  have  never  been  able  to  make  him  say  even  that 
he  wanted  anything  that  he  did  not  have;  but  this  morning, 
when  I  told  him  that  I  intended  to  remove  him,  in  the  fullness  of 
his  gratitude  he  admitted,  without  thinking,  how  glad  he  would 
be  to  get  away,  and  how  much  suffering  he  might  have  been 
spared  if  he  had  been  in  a  more  quiet  place.  You  would  have 
been  touched  to  see  the  eagerness  with  which  he  seized  upon  the 
promise,  and  begged  me  not  to  forget  it.  I  have  drawn  a  pleasant 
picture,  girls,  of  the  home  to  which  I  am  going  to  take  him,  and 
of  the  family  to  whose  keeping  I  am  going  to  intrust  him.  You 
must  see  to  it  that  all  his  anticipations  are  realized." 

"We  will  do  our  best,  Uncle  John,"  said  Eva;  "but  I  am 
sorry  that  you  promised  so  much.     What  made  you  do  it?" 

"  One  reason  was,  because  I  did  not  think  that  I  had  exag- 
gerated the  picture;  for  you  ought  to  know,  Eva,  that  I  think 
the  Hall  a  very  pleasant  home,  and  the  Camerons  very  pleasant 
people ;  and  the  other  reason  was,  because  I  felt  so  sorry  for  him, 
and  so  anxious  at  the  moment  to  do  something  to  divert  his 
thoughts  from  his  loneliness  and  suffering,  that  it  would  have 
been  a  strong  temptation  to  draw  a  fancy  sketch  if  it  had  been 
necessary.  Fortunately,  however,  for  my  veracity,  the  simple 
truth  was  sufficiently  attractive." 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  abruptly,  "you  have  never  had  a 
letter  from  Dr.  Charles  since  the  battle.  We  have  had  two  from 
Walter,  and  I  certainly  thought  that  Dr.  Beaufort  would  have 
written  to  you.  I  was  afraid  that  something  had  happened  to 
him;  but  in  his  last  letter  Walter  mentioned  that  he  was  well, 
but  very  busy." 

"  So  I  suppose,  Eva,  and  I  account  for  his  silence  in  that  way. 


CAMEKON    HALL.'  237 

He  must  have  his  hands  full  now,  and  not  very  pleasant  work 
either.     Poor  Charles  !" 

Julia  glanced  up  quickly  at  Uncle  John,  but  his  face  betrayed 
no  knowledge  of  what  she  feared;  and  Eva  asked: 

"  What  makes  you  say  so.  Uncle  John  ?" 

"  Because,  Eva,  he  went  away  sad ;  and  I  saw  it  and  let  him 
go  without  asking  what  was  the  matter.  I  thought  that  if  he 
wished  me  to  know  he  would  have  told  me ;  but  I  wish  now  that 
I  had  asked  him.  Perhaps  I  could  have  done  something  to  cheer 
and  comfort  him." 

"  That  might  have  been  impossible.  Uncle  John." 

"  I  think  not,  Eva.  I  have  never  known  any  trouble,  either  my 
own  or  that  of  others,  for  which  a  gentle  word,  or  a  look  of  sym- 
pathy, or  an  act  of  kindness  had  no  soothing  power.  Something 
at  least  of  these  I  might  have  done  for  Charles  if  he  needed  it." 

Julia  had  listened  with  seeming  indifference  until  she  could  do 
so  no  longer.  She  saw  that  Charles  had  been  faithful  to  his 
promise ;  and  that,  however  much  relief  he  might  have  experi- 
enced from  opening  his  heart  to  Uncle  John,  he  had  still  sacredly 
regarded  a  request  whose  reasonableness  he  might  well  have 
doubted.  In  her  first  agony,  she  had  reproached  herself  that  she 
had  not  told  him  all ;  but  when  the  excitement  was  over,  she  could 
not  regret  that  her  own  lips  had  refused  to  confess  the  blot  upon 
her  name.  Now,  however,  she  was  afraid  that  she  had  thought 
only  of  herself  in  this  matter ;  that  she  had  selfishly  exacted  of 
him  a  promise  which  denied  him  the  comfort  of  a  word  of  expla- 
nation not  only  from  herself,  but  also  from  any  other  human  being, 
and  condemned  him  to  bear  his  burden  silently,  unrelieved  by  that 
sympathy  and  kindness  which  Uncle  John  had  just  said  were  so 
soothing,  and  whose  power  she  had  herself  felt  and  acknowledged. 

*'  I  cannot  bear  this  any  longer,"  she  thought ;  and  at  the  first 
pause  in  the  conversation,  and  at  the  risk  of  appearing  abrupt, 
she  asked  : 

"  Uncle  John,  how  are  your  patients  at  home  getting  along  ?" 

"  The  wounded,  very  well;  but  the  old  man  is  slowly  but  surely 
wasting  away.     I  feel  an  unaccountable  interest  in  him,  Julia." 

"  Not  unaccountable.  Uncle  John  ;  for  you  never  yet  felt  any- 
thing but  interest  and  sympathy  for  the  sick  and  suffering." 

"But  I  feel  for  this  old  man  a  peculiar  compassion.  It  may 
be  because  he  is  an  old  and  gray-headed  soldier ;  and  I  admire 
in  him  the  unselfish  devotion  to  his  country  that  I  have  not  my- 
self acted  out,  and  which  made  him  willing  to  do  what  he  could, 
even  with  the  probability  before  him  that,  as  the  event  has  proved, 
his  life  would  be  the  forfeit." 

"Uncle  John,"  she  answered,  "you  do  not  do  yourself  justice. 


238  'CAMERON    HALL. 

It  is  not  your  patriotism  that  is  at  fault,  it  is  his  judgment.  He 
has  not  done  his  country  any  good  by  going  into  the  ranks,  be- 
cause he  was  physically  incapable  of  service  ;  so  are  you,  so  is 
almost  any  old  man.  Perhaps,  if  he  had  stayed  quietly  at  home, 
he  would  have  found  many  ways  of  being  as  useful  as  you  are 
now;  but  as  it  is,  he  has  needlessly  thrown  away  his  life." 

"  You  may  be  right,  my  daughter ;  but,  after  all,  I  cannot  but 
admire  the  old  man." 

"Where  is  his  home,  Uncle  John  ?"  asked  Eva. 

"I  do  not  know.  I  talk  very  little  to  him  beyond  asking  how 
he  feels  and  what  he  wants.  I  have  stayed  with  him  too  a  great 
deal,  because  I  am  afraid  that  he  will  die  without  anybody  know- 
ing it ;  but  he  sleeps  almost  constantly,  and  even  when  he  is 
awake  he  is  so  exliausted  that  I  cannot  consent  to  torture  him 
with  questions.  But  I  really  must  ask  him  about  his  home  and 
friends,  for  when  he  dies  I  shall  not  even  know  where  or  to  whom 
to  write." 

"  It  is  a  pity.  Uncle  John,"  said  Julia,  "  that  you  did  not  do  so 
at  first,  for  by  this  time  his  wife  or  daughter,  if  he  has  any,  might 
have  reached  here  from  almost  any  part  of  the  Confederacy,  and 
it  would  have  been  such  a  comfort  to  him." 

"  I  wish  now  that  I  had,  Julia ;  but  when  he  reached  here  the 
physician  thought  him  almost  in  a  dying  condition;  and  I  have 
expected  from  day  to  day  since  that  he  would  die.  It  is  truly 
wonderful  that  he  has  lingered  so  long." 

"Perhaps  it  is  not  too  late  even  now;  especially  if  his  home 
could  be  reached  by  telegraph.  It  may  be,  that  his  family  are 
near  enough  to  get  here  in  two  or  three  days,  if  they  could  be 
telegraphed." 

"He  will  not  live  that  long,  Julia." 

"So  you  have  thought.  Uncle  John,  for  two  weeks.  I  would 
certainly  make  the  attempt;  it  is  worth  the  trial." 

"  Yery  well,  I  will  ask  him  to-day.  I  hope  that  I  have  not 
been  remiss  about  this  thing ;  and  I  can  scarcely  blame  myself, 
since  if  he  had  desired  it  I  think  that  he  would  have  requested  it, 
for  his  mind  is  perfectly  clear,  and  he  has  no  hesitation  in  making 
known  his  wants.  However,  if  it  is  to  be  done  at  all,  it  must  be 
at  once,  for  there  is  no  time  to  lose,  and  so  I  will  go  this  very 
minute  and  talk  to  him  upon  the  subject." 

He  found  the  sick  man  with  his  eyes  closed  as  usual ;  his  wan 
features  wearing  that  unmistakable  impress  with  which  Death 
marks  his  victims  even  before  his  fatal  grasp  has  closed  upon 
them.  The  slow,  quiet  heaving  of  the  bosom  alone  betrayed  that 
the  feeble  spark  yet  lingered.  Uncle  John  entered  quietly  and 
took  his  seat,  fearing  to  speak,  lest  he  might  be  asleep ;  but  his 


CAMERON    HALL.  239 

step  was  heard  and  recognized,  and,  with  the  eyes  still  closed,  a 
feeble  voice  said : 

"I  am  not  asleep,  sir." 

"Are  you  any  better  to-day  ?"  asked  Uncle  John. 

"Xo,  sir,  neither  better  nor  worse.  I  suffer  no  pain  ;  it  is  only 
weakness." 

"I  have  thought,  my  friend,"  said  Uncle  John,  taking  his 
wasted  hand,  "  from  the  first  moment  that  I  saw  you,  that  you 
were  a  very  sick  man,  but  have  hoped  from  day  to  day  that  you 
would  get  better ;  but  as  you  do  not  think  yourself  that  you  are 
improving,  would  it  not  be  better  to  telegraph  for  some  of  your 
family — wife  or  daughter  V 

He  shook  his  head  languidly,  and  replied: 

"I  have  neither." 

"  Then  have  you  no  friend  whom  you  would  like  to  see,  and  for 
whom  I  could  send?" 

"No,  none  sufficiently  interested  to  come  to  see  me,  or  to  do 
as  much  for  me,  my  kind  sir,  as  you  have  done." 

He  rested  a  moment,  and  then  added : 

"I  have  neither  brother  nor  sister;  and  I  laid  my  wife  in  a 
foreign  grave,  when  I  was  scarcely  more  than  a  youth." 

"And  you  have  no  children  ?" 

The  features  worked  convulsively,  and  Uncle  John  regretted 
the  question  when  he  saw  the  pain  that  it  caused.  Presently  the 
answer  came,  almost  with  a  gasp : 

"One,  somewhere  in  the  world,  but  I  know  not  where." 

Uncle  John's  face  expressed  interest  and  sympathy;  but  he 
greatly  feared  the  effects  of  excitement  upon  so  wearied  a  frame, 
and,  wishing  to  put  a  stop  to  the  conversation,  he  made  no 
reply. 

Presently  the  sick  man  said,  languidly : 

"  That  is  the  reason  that  I  came  to  Hopedale.  I  hoped  to 
hear  something  of  my  only  daughter  before  I  died ;  but  now  it  is 
too  late.  I  have  been  too  sick  to  talk  upon  so  exciting  a  subject, 
and  have  been  waiting  to  get  better ;  but  the  opportunity  is  gone. 
A  few  more  hours  are  all  that  are  left  me  now,  and  I  must  die  as 
I  have  lived,  not  knowing  even  whether  she  is  alive  or  dead." 

The  last  word  was  inaudible,  and  in  its  place  there  came  a  weary 
sigh,  and  then  he  was  very  still.  Uncle  John  thought  for  a  moment 
that  he  was  gone ;  but  he  found  that  there  was  still  a  feeble  pulse, 
and  he  hastily  administered  brandy.  It  was  several  minutes  before 
he  opened  his  eyes  again ;  and  when  he  did,  and  was  about  to 
speak,  Uncle  John  said  : 

"Not  now,  my  friend.  Don't  talk  any  more  now.  "Wait  until 
to-morrow." 


210  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  To-morrow  will  never  come  to  me.  I  mlist  say  what  I  have 
to  say  now.     Tell  me,  do  you  know  the  Cameron  family  ?" 

"They  are  my  best  friends." 

"  Do  you  know  the  eldest  son,  George  ?" 

"  I  never  saw  him.  My  acquaintance  with  the  family  began 
after  he  left  home." 

"He  married  my  daughter." 

"Whatl"  exclaimed  Uncle  John,  jumping  up  from  his  chair, 
and  forgetting  in  his  excitement  the  weakness  an^l  exhaustion  of 
the  sick  man. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  answered ;  "and  it  was  from  them  that  I  hoped 
to  hear  something  of  my  child." 

"You  are  doomed  to  disappointment,  ray  poor  friend,"  said 
Uncle  John,  kindly.  "They  have  heard  nothing  from  George 
for  years ;  and  if  they  ever  heard  that  he  was  married,  they  have 
never  mentioned  it  to  me." 

"  Then  my  last  hope  is  gone,"  he  said  wearily,  and  closed  his 
eyes  in  disappointment  and  weakness.  But  he  could  not  be  silent. 
The  thought  of  his  child  had  given  him  unnatural  strength,  and 
it  seemed  that  to  be  quiet  now  would  be  as  great  an  effort  as  it 
had  heretofore  been  to  talk. 

"  Does  his  father,  sir,"  he  said,  "  know  that  his  son  is  a  captain 
in  the  Federal  army  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Uncle  John. 

"It  is  just  what  I  should  expect  from  him,  sir.  The  man  who 
will  desert  his  family  will  desert  his  country,  too." 

Uncle  John  saw  that  he  was  determined  to  talk,  and  he  could 
not  refuse  him  the  poor  comfort  of  seeming  interested  in  what 
was,  to  the  dying  man,  the  sole  object  of  thought  and  desire,  and 
he  replied  : 

"Poor,  miserable  boy  !  From  his  childhood  he  has  marred  the 
happiness  of  every  human  being  with  whom  he  has  been  asso- 
ciated ;  it  was  not  enough  to  have  rendered  father,  mother,  home 
unhappy,  it  seems  that  he  must  needs  wreck  the  peace  of  his  wife, 
too!" 

"  Yes,  sir,  my  daughter  was  deserted,  doubly  deserted  ;  first  by 
her  father,  and  then  by  her  husband." 

Uncle  John  was  greatly  surprised,  and  looked  earnestly  at  the 
sick  man,  whose  wasted  cheeks  now  burned  and  his  eyes  sparkled 
with  the  fever's  fire.  His  words  of  self-reproach  were  utterly 
inconsistent  with  his  evident  parental  anxiety,  and  Uncle  John 
began  to  fear  lest  the  brain  might  at  last  have  yielded  to  the 
effect  of  disease.  He  did  not  have  to  wait  long,  however,  for  an 
explanation,  for  the  words  came  hurriedly : 

"  You  are  a  stranger,  sir ;  but  you  have  been  kind  to  me,  and 


CAMERON    HALL.  241 

I  thank  you  for  it.  Do  for  me  one  more  kindness,  and  the  last: 
listen  to  the  story  of  my  life,  and  let  me  relieve  my  heart,  even  in 
dying,  of  some  of  that  burden  which  I  have  borne  in  life  alone, 
and  without  sympathy." 

"My  friend,"  he  answered,  "I  will  gladly  do  what  I  can  to 
comfort  and  relieve  you ;  but  indeed  you  little  know  the  injury 
that  you  are  now  doing  yourself.  This  excitement  has  already 
greatly  increased  your  fever.  Wait  until  another  time,  and  you 
shall  tell  me  all." 

"  It  must  be  now  or  never.     Will  you  listen  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  it  will  comfort  you." 

"  I  told  you,  just  now,  that  I  buried  my  young  wife  in  a  foreign 
land,  when  I  was  scarcely  more  than  a  youth.  She  left  me  an 
infant  daughter  a  few  months  old.  I  was  by  nature  a  domestic 
man.  I  loved  my  wife  passionately,  and  felt  her  death  most 
keenly,  and  until  my  child  was  three  years  old,  I  tried  to  find  in 
her  a  solace  and  comfort  for  my  loss.  I  was,  however,  in  govern- 
ment service,  and  business  called  me  a  great  deal  from  home  and 
necessitated  long  absences.  I  had  no  one  except  a  servant  to 
take  care  of  my  child  when  I  was  away,  and  although  she  was 
faithful  and  kind,  still  I  did  not  like  her  influence,  and  thought 
that  justice  to  the  child  required  that  I  should  place  her  where 
she  would  be  properly  trained,  and  so  I  sent  her  back  to  the 
United  States,  to  my  mother,  in  South  Carolina." 

He  stopped  to  rest,  and  Uncle  John  thought  that  it  was  some- 
thing more  than  exhaustion  which  made  his  breath  struggle  so 
laboriously  from  his  panting  breast.  In  a  few  minutes  he  re- 
sumed his  story.  "But  the  change,  however  beneficial  it  might 
have  been  for  her,  proved  a  disastrous  one  to  me.  She  was  the 
last  link  that  bound  me  to  my  home  ;  child  though  slie  was,  she 
had  proved  not  only  a  companion,  but  guardian  as  well,  for  only 
those  who  have  been  intimately  associated  with  little  children 
can  know  the  softening  the  almost  holy  influence  that  can  be  ex- 
erted upon  the  heart  even  of  a  man  by  a  little  child." 

"I  know  it  well,  for  I  have  felt  it,"  interposed  Uncle  John, 
earnestly. 

The  sick  man  went  on. 

"  When  she  was  gone,  I  felt  ashamed  of  the  weakness  that 
made  me  so  dependent  for  happiness  upon  an  infant,  and  I 
sought  forgetfulness  in  the  so-called  manly  pleasures  and  amuse- 
ments of  a  gay  foreign  capital.  I  was  never  what  the  world  calls 
a  dissipated  man,  thank  God  for  that  !  but  the  indurating  effect 
of  such  a  life  gradually  went  on,  until,  in  the  course  of  years,  if 
I  did  not  exactly  forget  that  I  was  a  father,  I  at  least  lived  and 
acted  as  if  I  had  no  child  who-  had  a  right  to  expect  and  demand 

21 


242  CAMERON    HALL. 

of  me  a  father's  protection  and  love,  and  for  whose  happiness 
and  well-being  I  was  responsible.  I  heard  from  her  through  my 
letters  from  home,  and  they  told  me  that  she  was  fulfilling  the 
promise  of  her  infancy,  in  her  beauty  both  of  person  and  char- 
acter ;  and  when  at  last  she  was  a])le  to  write  herself,  I  felt  proud 
of  my  daughter,  and  used  to  dream  idly  of  an  old  age  when  I 
should  be  infirm  aud  helpless,  and  should  find  in  her  all  that  a 
father's  heart  could  ask,  without  my  ever  having  done  anything 
toward  effecting  so  desirable  a  result.  But  such  are  not  the 
ways  of  Providence.  Parental  duties  are  just  as  binding  as  are 
the  obligations  of  children  '  to  honor  father  and  mother ;'  and  woe 
to  that  parent  who  voluntarily  severs  the  sacred  tie,  and  dele- 
gates to  others  those  duties  and  responsibilities  which  God  has 
expressly  laid  upon  himself  1 

"Years  passed  on,  and  I  grew  tired,  and  longed  for  some 
variety  in  my  life,  for  a  man  will  grow  restless  and  roving  unless 
his  heart  is  safely  moored  by  domestic  ties.  Though  in  the 
strength  and  vigor  of  manhood,  I  was  nevertheless  too  old  to 
enter  the  navy;  but  in  the  ever-changing  scenes  of  such  a  life  I 
knew  that  I  could  alone  find  the  adventure  and  variety  which  I 
craved,  and  therefore,  in  obedience  to  my  desires,  I  soon  found 
myself  upon  the  broad  ocean,  with  no  home  but  my  ship.  I  was 
now  not  only  contented,  but  fascinated,  and  never  thought  of  be- 
coming a  landsman  again.  Less  and  less  frequently  came  the 
letters  from  home ;  but  I  learned  to  do  without  them,  for  I  found 
enough  of  interest  and  pleasure  in  the  society  of  my  jovial  com- 
panions, and  in  those  foreign  countries  where  everything  was 
strange  and  new.  One  day,  after  a  very  long  cruise,  we  sailed 
into  the  Gulf  of  Genoa.  I  had  not  received  a  line  from  mother 
or  daughter  for  four  long  years,  and  there,  at  the  consul's,  I  found 
an  old  letter,  yellow  and  dusty,  and  dated  three  years  back.  It 
was  from  my  daughter,  telling  me  of  her  grandmother's  death, 
and  her  consequent  desolation,  without  parent  or  relative.  It 
was  a  piteous  letter,  and  there  was  still  enough  of  the  father  left 
in  me  to  be  stirred  up  by  it.  To  come  home  as  fast  as  steam 
could  bring  me,  to  throw  up  my  commission,  and  to  spend  the 
rest  of  my  life  in  trying  to  repair  the  errors  of  its  earlier  years, 
and  to  be  a  true  father  to  the  child  to  whom  I  had  been  such 
only  in  name,  was  the  resolve  of  an  instant,  and  was  executed  as 
speedily  as  possible.  I  came  back  to  my  old  home  and  found  the 
house,  indeed,  but  nothing  else.  The  mother  whom  I  had  left 
there  had  been  long  dead,  the  young  daughter  whom  I  hoped  to 
find  there  was  gone.  I  learned  how  she  had  longed  and  waited 
for  a  reply  to  the  several  letters  that  she  had  written,  imploring 
me  to  come  to  her,  and  finally  how  she  had  mourned  for  me  as 


CAMERON    HALL.  243 

dead.  Beautiful  and  engaging,  she  had  been  sought  and  won  by 
a  young  stranger,  George  Cameron,  whose  birth  and  name  were 
his  principal  recommendations.  His  fascinating  manners  and 
handsome  appearance  had  attracted  her,  and,  lonely  and  desolate, 
with  none  to  guide  her  in  her  choice,  she  had  accepted,  with  all 
her  trusting  heart,  the  promise  of  that  love  and  protection  which 
she  felt  that  she  so  much  needed.  As  had  been  foreseen,  he  had 
not  heart  enough  to  appreciate  the  treasure  that  he  had  won, 
and  before  a  year  had  elapsed  he  began  to  weary  of  the  love  that 
he  had  sought,  and  his  desire  for  the  roving  adventurous  life  that 
he  had  led  from  his  youth  began  to  return.  The  coming  of  a 
little  daughter  did  not  satisfy  him  as  she  had  hoped,  and  before 
it  was  six  months  old,  lured  by  the  golden  dreams  of  California 
and  the  excitement  of  pioneer  life,  he  had  left  wife  and  child, 
promising  to  make  for  them  a  comfortable  home,  and  then  return 
and  take  them  to  it.  For  a  little  while  he  wrote  regularly ;  but 
by  degrees  he  grew  tired  of  this,  as  he  did  of  everything  else ; 
and  after  awhile  his  letters  ceased  altogether.  His  wife  made  no 
complaint.  She  bore  her  trouble  in  silence  and  patience;  but 
the  grief  which  asked  no  sympathy  in  words,  pleaded  powerfully 
for  it  in  the  sad  young  face,  which  no  smile  ever  lightened. 
One  morning  the  town  was  startled  by  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Cam- 
eron and  her  child  had  disappeared.  She  was  gone,  none  knew 
whither,  for  neither  to  friend  nor  servant  had  she  by  word  or  act 
betrayed  her  purpose,  nor  since  that  time  had  she  ever  been  heaid 
from. 

"  You  may  imagine,  sir,  the  surprise,  sorrow,  and  self-reproach, 
with  which  I  heard  this  story,  and  remembered  that  this  deserted 
young  wife,  wandering,  with  her  infant,  helplessly  through  the 
world,  was  my  daughter,  to  whom  I  owed  love  and  protection ! 
I  determined  to  find  her,  and  to  repay  her  with  interest  for  the 
love  that  I  had  so  long  withheld.  I  would  not,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, have  admitted  the  existence  of  diflBculties  which  my 
strong  determination  of  purpose  could  not  overcome ;  but  I  be- 
lieved, in  these  days  of  telegraphic  and  railway  communication, 
that  to  find  her  and  go  to  her  would  be  the  work  of  a  very  few 
weeks.  But  I  have  not  found  it  so.  I  have  sought  her  for  years, 
and  have  used  all  the  means  in  my  power  to  find  her.  I  have 
written  more  than  once  to  Mr.  Cameron,  without  success.  I 
have  written  repeatedly  to  George,  in  California,  but  only  re- 
ceived a  reply  to  the  first  of  my  letters,  in  which  he  disclaimed  all 
knowledge  of  his  wife.  Why  I  wanted  to  come  here  to  die;  why 
I  should  have  expected  that  the  Cameron  family  now  could  know 
anything  of  her;  and  why  I  should  have  felt  disappointed  when 
you  told  me  that  they  did  not,  I  cannot  tell,  unless  it  is  the 


244  CAMERON    HALL. 

tenacity  of  that  hope  which  repeated  disappointment  cannot 
entirely  crush,  I  have  believed  for  years  that  she  was  dead,  and 
have  pursued  my  inquiries,  not  so  much  with  the  hope  of  seeing 
her,  as  of  hearing  how  she  lived,  and  where  she  died,  and  of  get- 
ting some  clew  to  her  child. 

"And  now,  sir,  you  see  in  the  helpless  old  man,  dependent 
upon  a  stranger  for  the  kindness  which  is  to  soothe  his  dying 
bed,  the*  wreck  of  manhood.  Ah,  sir !  it  is  indeed  a  mournful 
thing,  to  stand  at  the  close  of  life,  and,  looking  back,  to  see 
nothing  that  you  can  remember  with  pleasure !  It  was  this 
anxiety  to  repair,  if  possible,  a  wasted  life ;  this  longing  to  do 
something  worth  doing,  before  I  died,  that  impelled  me  to  join 
the  army.  I  was  afraid  that  I  was  too  old  to  do  my  country  any 
good,  for  sometimes,  when  the  opportunities  of  a  whole  life  are 
allowed  to  slip  away  unimproved,  and  at  the  last  we  want  to  do 
something,  the  privilege  is  denied  us.  So  it  is  now  with  me.  I 
have  not  been  allowed  even  to  serve  my  country !  It  took  but  a 
few  weeks  of  camp  life  to  prostrate  the  old  man's  strength ;  and 
when  the  thunders  of  artillery  and  the  shouts  of  battle  rent  the 
air  on  the  plains  of  Manassas,  they  fell  upon  an  ear  too  heavy  to 
be  disturbed  by  the  tumult,  upon  a  mind  and  body  too  feeble  to 
feel  a  quickening  pulse,  or  a  glad  exultation  when  the  cries  of 
victory  were  heard. 

"  Some  of  the  wounded  men  were  brought  into  the  tent  where 
I  was  lying,  and  I  heard  a  voice  say :  '  Some  must  be  sent  to 
Hopedale.'  Hopedale  !  that  single  word  roused  the  senses  that 
could  not  be  stirred  by  the  cannon's  roar ;  and  I  said,  in  a  tone 
of  energy  and  decision,  that  startled  even  myself:  '  Send  me  to 
Hopedale,  too.  I  must,  I  will  go  there!'  They  tried  to  reason 
with  me ;  they  told  me  that  I  was  too  sick,  that  the  journey  would 
certainly  kill  me,  but  it  was  all  of  no  avail.  Hopedale  I  the  very 
word  suggested  the  hope  of  hearing  from  my  long-lost  daughter, 
and  besides  it  brought  vividly  to  my  mind  the  recollection  of  that 
daughter's  mother.  Yes,  I  would  go  back  to  Hopedale,  the 
scene  of  my  youthful  love  and  happiness,  and  would  go  to  rest 
where  I  had  sought  and  won  the  wife  of  my  youth." 

"  You  are,  then,  not  altogether  a  stranger  here  ?" 

"A  stranger,  and  yet  not  a  stranger.  I  cannot  feel  altogether 
a  stranger  in  a  place  so  intimately  associated  with  the  most  sacred 
memories  of  my  whole  life,  although  I  have  really  never  spent 
more  than  a  few  days  here,  and  that  was  long  years  ago.  It  was 
here  that  I  first  saw  Lucy  Ellsworth." 

^  "  Lucy  Ellsworth  .'"shouted  Uncle  John,  springing  fiercely  from 
his  seat.  "Do  you  tell  me  that  you  are  the  husband  of  my  wife — 
my  wife  in  promise,  and,  as  I  believed,  in  heart, — my  wife  in  all 


CAMERON    HALL.  245 

save  the  words  of  a  ceremony  ?     Are  you  the  man  that  came  be- 
tween me  and  happiness  ?  who  blighted  all  my  life  ?  who " 

In  his  excitement,  Uncle  John's  eyes  glowed  with  unwonted 
passion.  He  forgot  the  sickness  and  prostration  of  the  wretched 
man  before  him,  who,  in  his  helplessness,  fairly  quailed  beneath 
his  burning  glance.  He  forgot  everything,  except  that  the  man 
who  had  taken  from  him  the  love  that  he  had  valued  more  than 
his  life  was  before  him,  and  in  his  power.  But  while  his  eyes 
were  fastened  fiercely  upon  him,  they  saw  a  change  come  over 
the  wan  face,  which  at  once  recalled  him  to  his  better  self 

"God  have  mercy  upon  me  I"  he  murmured,  as  pressing  his 
hand  upon  his  forehead  he  tried  to  collect  his  bewildered  thoughts 
and  curb  his  strong  passions.  It  was  a  great  effort,  but  the 
habit  of  long  years  came  to  his  assistance,  and  he  succeeded.  He 
was  urged,  too,  to  control  himself  by  a  feeling  of  alarm,  as  he 
saw  the  fever-glow  pass  away  from  the  cheeks,  and  the  eyes  be- 
come glazed  and  stony.  The  pulse  was  nearly  gone,  and  Uncle 
John,  now  fairly  overcome  by  his  conflicting  feelings,  as  his  fin- 
gers pressed  the  wasted  wrist,  murmured : 

'*God  forgive  me  1  I  would  do  nothing  to  hasten  his  end  I" 

Seizing  some  brandy,  he  hastily  administered  it,  and  then  stood 
and  gently  wiped  away  the  cold  drops  from  his  forehead,  and 
chafed  his  hands,  and  counted  his  feeble  pulse.  Never  had  he 
been  so  completely  unmanned  before.  He  trembled  in  every 
limb,  and  stood  in  mute  agony,  fearing  lest  every  breath  might 
be  the  last,  and  lest  his  own  wild  passion  had  quenched  that  life, 
which,  although  now  but  a  feeble  spark,  was,  nevertheless,  God- 
given,  and  which  God  alone  had  the  right  to  extinguish. 

After  awhile  the  sick  man  revived.  His  pulse  beat  quicker 
and  fuller,  and  opening  his  eyes  he  saw  the  look  of  profound  pity 
and  sorrow  which  was  bent  upon  him. 

"Come  close,"  he  whispered,  "and  give  me  your  hand." 

Uncle  John  bent  down,  and  felt  his  hand  inclosed  in  a  feeble 
grasp. 

"You  have  been  deeply  wronged,"  he  said,  "  but  you  have  been 
as  fully  avenged.  It  poisoned  her  life  ;  sometimes  I  have  thought 
that  it  caused  her  early  death.  As  to  myself,  the  most  malignant 
could  not  wish  me  to  have  suffered  more.  May  God  help  you  to 
forgive  me  before  I  die." 

"Amen  !"  was  the  fervent  response. 

The  weary  eyelids  closed,  and  the  dying  man  seemed  to  sleep. 
Uncle  John  sat  by  the  bedside  with  his  head  leaning  upon  his 
hand,  and  his  heart  in  a  wild  tumult.  The  past,  with  its  sad  mem- 
ories, rose  vividly  before  him,  and  the  fervor  of  his  youthful  love, 
and  the  bitterness  of  its  blight,  rushed  over  his  heart  as  it  had 

21* 


246  C^ERON    HALL. 

not  done  in  long,  long  years.  One  only  intensely  malignant 
feeling  still  lingo :'<icl  in  liis  breast.  One  human  being  only  in  the 
world  his  kind  and  gentle  heart  had  ever  hated,  and  now  he, 
upon  whom,  in  the  fury  of  his  disappointment  and  rage,  he  had 
sworn  to  avenge  himself,  was  here  to  receive  comfort  and  forgive- 
ness at  his  hands  instead  of  vengeance,  and  to  have  his  eyes 
gently  closed  by  one  who  had  become  thus  strangely  his  friend 
instead  of  his  enemy!  No  wonder  that  his  feelings  were  in  a 
wild  tumult !  When  he  listened  to  the  feeble  prayer  that  "  God 
would  help  him  to  forgive,"  he  longed  to  say  "I  do,"  but  he 
dared  not  speak  to  the  dying  words  which  might  be  untrue,  and 
in  the  wild  chaos  of  his  heart  he  could  not  tell  whether  he  for- 
gave or  not. 

He  sat  very  still,  and  thought  long  and  deeply.  Daylight 
waned,  and  night  found  him  in  the  same  position,  still  thinking 
upon  the  past ;  but  now  his  bitter  memories  had  given  way  to 
sweet  and  pleasant  ones,  and  the  form  and  feature  of  the  child- 
angel  seemed  to  come  up  from  the  grave  of  distant  years,  and  to 
plead  with  those  childish  accents  that  he  never  could  resist,  and 
with  those  well-remembered  tones  of  persuasion,  that  he  would 
forgive  her  dying  father. 

When  the  quiet  of  deep  repose  rested  upon  all  the  world,  the 
dying  man  began  gently  to  sink  in  a  repose  deeper  still.  Uncle 
John  just  caught  the  words,  "Can  you  forgive  ?"  and  the  child- 
angel  seemed  to  say,  "  Can  you  refuse  ?" 

Uncle  John  grasped  the  cold,  clammy  hand,  and  said,  in  a 
choking  voice : 

"  God  is  my  witness,  that  I  forgive  you  from  the  very  bottom 
of  my  heart !" 

A  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  a  whispered,  but  earnest,  "  Thank 
you,"  was  the  only  response.  After  a  little  while  he  spoke  again, 
but  the  words  were  slow  and  labored  : 

"  My  child — if  you  ever  find  her,  will  you  be  kind  to  her  ?" 

Again  the  picture  of  the  child-angel  came  before  him,  bright, 
innocent,  and  happy,  and  it  needed  no  effort  to  promise : 

"I  will,  so  help  me  God  1" 

"  God  bless  you  ! — God  bless " 

A  long-drawn,  labored  sigh,  a  flutter  of  the  pulse,  and  all  was 
still,  profoundly  still. 

Uncle  John  gently  closed  the  eyes,  gazed  a  moment  upon  the 
features  quietly  settling  down  into  the  repose  of  death,  then  seat- 
ing himself  beside  the  lifeless  clay,  his  whole  frame  shook  with 
the  emotions  and  the  tears  which  he  would  have  been  either  more 
or  less  than  man  if  he  could  have  restrained. 

The  next  morning,  a  bounding,  rushing  step  was  arrested,  and 


CAMERON     HALL.  247 

a  merry  voice  was  hushed,  as  Eva,  with  a  magnificent  bouquet  for 
Willie,  sprang  into  the  hall  and  was  met  by  Uncle  John's  pale  and 
haggard  face.  Unaccustomed  to  see  it  otherwise  than  lighted  up 
by  a  smile,  she  stopped  short  in  silent  amazement. 

Julia  followed,  and  seeing  at  once  that  something  was  sadly 
wrong,  she  went  up  to  him,  and  taking  his  hand,  said,  anxiously: 

"  Something  distresses  you.  Uncle  John." 

"Come  here,  my  daughters,  both  of  you." 

They  followed  him  into  the  darkened  parlor.  He  led  them  to 
the  couch,  and  with  an  arm  around  each,  he  said  : 

"  There  lies  the  man  who  blighted  my  early  life  :  who  took  from 
me  the  heart  and  the  affection  that  I  prized  more  than  all  else 
on  earth  besides,  and  nearly  drove  me  to  that  desperation  from 
which  his  own  little  child,  the  child-angel  that  I  once  told  you 
about,  afterwards  saved  me.  My  children,  all  my  life  long  I  have 
hated  that  man  ;  all  my  life  I  have  intended  to  avenge  myself  if 
it  should  ever  be  in  my  power ;  but,  thank  God,  who  has  changed 
my  wicked  purpose,  and  instead  of  an  avenger  has  made  me 
minister  to  him  in  sickness  and  suffering  1  Last  night,  upon  his 
dying  bed,  I  forgave  him  the  deep  wrong  that  he  had  done  me, 
and  now  my  heart  is  emptied  of  all  its  hate." 

They  turned  and  went  away,  and,  as  Uncle  John  closed  the 
door  after  them,  Julia  said  : 

"Uncle  John,  I  never  knew  before  that  you  could  hate  any- 
body." 

"Yes,  daughter,  I  both  could  and  did.  It  is  true  that  I  have 
not  for  many  years  felt  toward  him  the  rancorous  hatred  of  my 
youth,  but  never  have  I  felt  that  I  could  sincerely  and  heartily 
forgive  that  wrong  until  last  night.  But  the  feeling  is  all  gone 
now,  and,  thank  God !  it  was  all  gone  before  he  died." 

Uncle  John  thought  long  and  sadly  of  the  strange  destiny  that 
had  linked  the  fate  of  his  child-angel  to  George  Cameron,  and 
that  had  decreed  her  heart  to  suffer  the  same  blight  which  she 
had  so  unconsciously  soothed  and  comforted  in  him  ;  and  for  days 
he  found  himself  constantly  wondering  if  she,  too,  had  ever  found 
a  comforter.     But  Uncle  John  never  spoke  of  it. 

"  This  secret,"  he  said,  "  shall  rest  in  the  grave  with  the  lips 
that  uttered  it,  and  never  through  me  shall  father  or  sister  learn 
that  still  another  crime  was  added  to  the  long  list  of  the  sadly 
fallen  son  and  brother." 


248  CAMERON    HALL. 


CHAPTER  XYIIL 

Uncle  John  was  right  in  supposing  that  Charles  Beaufort 
had  been  constantly  busy  since  the  battle  of  Manassas.  At  first 
it  was  incessant  toil  night  and  day ;  toil,  too,  of  the  most  ex- 
hausting kind,  since  it  was  a  call  not  only  upon  his  bodily  ener- 
gies, but  also  upon  the  sympathies  of  a  nature  which  had  not  yet 
learned  to  look  with  indifference  upon  human  suffering.  Officers 
and  soldiers  were  now  resting,  in  order  to  repair  their  wasted 
strength ;  but  for  him  it  was  constant  anxiety,  constant  attention, 
constant  watching.  He  often  thought  longingly  of  Cameron 
Hall,  of  Uncle  John's  quiet  home,  and  of  the  blind  child's  sweet 
music,  and  he  would  sometimes  shut  his  eyes  for  a  moment  upon 
the  scenes  around  him,  and  go  in  spirit  whither  he  could  not  go 
in  reality.  His  present  life  was  a  perpetual  struggle  between  his 
feelings  and  his  duty,  and  while  the  antagonism  could  not  make 
him  neglect  or  falter  in  his  duty,  still  it  made  it  proportionably 
wearing  and  burdensome. 

He  was  sitting  under  a  tree,  not  far  from  his  tent,  one  hot 
August  afternoon,  carving  with  his  knife,  upon  a  large  wooden 
cross,  the  name  of  one  of  his  young  friends  who  had  fallen  in  the 
battle.  It  was  by  no  means  an  unwelcome  task,  though  the 
thoughts  awakened  by  it  must  necessarily  have  been  sad ;  and 
Charles  was  so  deeply  absorbed,  that  he  did  not  hear  an  ap- 
proaching footstep,  and  was  aroused  by  a  voice  close  at  hand, 
which  said : 

''Are  you  almost  done,  doctor?"  and  Walter  threw  himself, 
with  a  yawn,  upon  the  ground  in  the  shade. 

"  I  am  glad  that  it  is  you,  Walter,  for,  when  I  heard  your  voice, 
I  thought  of  course  that  it  was  a  summons  to  the  hospital,  and 
sometimes  I  quite  despair  of  ever  finishing  my  work.  I  have 
been  to-day  called  away  three  times  while  trying  to  cut  a  single 
letter  ;  but  I  am  at  last  nearly  done.    Any  news  in  camp  to  day  ?" 

"  'No.  Oh,  yes  1  I  did  hear  something,  too.  There  is  a  sus- 
picion afloat  that  we  had  a  spy  in  camp  yesterday.  I  think  that 
I  must  have  seen  the  fellow,  and  I  only  wish  that  I  had  had  a 
suspicion  of  the  truth.  I  would  like  no  better  fun  than  to  cap- 
ture a  spy.     I  would  as  soon  do  it  as  to  storm  a  fort." 

"Do  you  think  this  last  a  very  amusing  job,  Walter?" 

"  Oh !  I  mean  for  the  eclat  of  the  thing.  To  storm  fortifica- 
tions, or  to  take  a  battery,  is  always  recorded  as  an  instance  of 


CAMERON    HALL.  249 

great  valor.  I  do  not  think  it  would  read  badly  in  the  news- 
papers, that  *  Walter  Cameron,  private  of  Company  C, Vir- 
ginia Regiment,  succeeded  yesterday  in  bringing  in  to  head- 
quarters a  spy  whom  he  had  captured.  On  his  person  were 
found  maps  of  the  fortifications,  a  plan  of  the  encampment,  etc. 
For  this  distinguished  service  the  gallant  youth  has  received  the 
thanks  of  the  commanding  general,  etc.  etc'  Don't  you  think 
that  sounds  pretty  well,  doctor  ?" 

"Yes,  Walter,"  he  replied,  smiling,  *'it  sounds  well  enough; 
and  if  the  deed  only  kept  pace  with  the  sound,  it  would  be  a 
happy  result.  But  you  have  not  caught  the  spy  yet.  Why 
don't  you  go  about  it,  if  you  think  it  such  a  pastime  ?" 

^  "  He  has  disappeared ;   at  least  nobody  seems  to  have  seen 
him  since  yesterday  evening." 

"  Then,  if  you  have  let  him  escape,  of  course  you  cannot  expect 
to  read  that  account  of  the  brilliant  achievement  which  you 
think  sounds  so  well." 

"  But  perhaps  he  is  not  really  gone.  He  may  still  be  lingering 
about  to  gain  more  perfect  information.  I  intend  to  keep  my 
eyes  wide  open  and  on  the  look-out.  Zounds  !  I  wish  that  I 
could  catch  him  I     It  would  be  capital  fun  !" 

"  Capital  fun  after  it  is  safely  done,  Walter,  but  perhaps  not  in 
the  doing.  Spies  generally  carry  that  about  them  which  secures 
them  against  an  easy  capture.  It  requires  some  skill  and  address 
to  do  the  thing  neatly  and  effectually.  When  did  you  hear  from 
Hopedale  ?" 

"  I  had  a  long  letter  to-day  from  Eva— just  such  a  letter  as  you 
would  expect  that  madcap  to  write  :  half  tearful  in  the  beginning, 
at  the  dangers  encountered  by  her  dear  brother,  and  at  the  end 
wildly  jubilant  because  he  has  escaped  unhurt.  It  is  a  famous 
letter,  just  like  a  cordial  to  a  fellow  in  camp.  It  is  a  life-like 
picture  of  home;  and  in  it  she  has  so  mixed  up  father  and  sister. 
Mammy  Nancy  and  Tom,  Carlo,  and  Wild  tire  and  Rebel,  that  it 
is  difficult  to  decide  which  occupies  the  prominent  place  in  her 
esteem  and  affections.  Heigh-ho  !  I  would  like  to  be  back  again 
at  the  old  Hall,  hunting,  with  Carlo  at  my  heels.  It  would  be 
much  better  fun  shooting  at  birds  and  squirrels  than  at  Yankees. 
I  am  too  tender-hearted  yet,  doctor,  to  make  a  soldier.  Do  you 
know  that  every  time  the  command  was  given  to  fire,  the  other 
day  in  the  battle,  while  I  wanted  to  kill  as  many  Yankees  as  I 
could,  for  that  was  what  I  joined  the  army  for,  yet,  whenever  I 
remembered  that  they  were  human  beings,  I  shuddered  involun- 
tarily, and  was  truly  thankful  that  if  I  did  kill  anybody  I  would 
never  know  it?" 

"  You  need  not  be  ashamed  of  the  feeling,  Walter,  nor  need 


250  CAMERON    HALL. 

you  ever  desire  to  become  less  tender-hearted.  It  is  not  a  brutal 
indifiference  to  human  suffering  that  constitutes  a  good  soldier. 
He  may  not  shriok  from  his  duty,  and  may  yet  look  with  pro- 
found pity  and  regret  upon  the  sufferings  which  necessarily  re- 
sult from  its  faithful  performance.  But  what  did  Miss  Eva  say 
of  your  father  and  sister  ?" 

"  My  father  is  in  his  usual  health,  and  in  his  usual  state  of 
anxiety  about  the  country.  She  says  that  he  has  grown  older  in 
appearance,  even  since  I  saw  him  three  months  ago.  She  gives 
an  amusing  account  of  the  manner  in  which  they  spent  the  day, 
awaiting  news  from  me,  and,  by-the-way,  sends  a  special  message 
of  thanks  to  you  for  wliat  in  her  enthusiasm  she  chooses  to  call 
your  'blessed  telegram.'  Poor  Eva!  she  is  not  fitted  for  trouble 
and  anxiety." 

"And  what  of  your  other  sister?"  inquired  Charles. 

"Eva  says  that  she  is  always  more  or  less  depressed  now, 
though  she  is  as  unselfish  as  ever,  and  tries  to  be  cheerful  for  my 
father's  sake.  Eva  thinks  that  she  partakes  of  his  anxiety  about 
the  country  and  about  me ;  and  as  she  is  so  mature  and  thought- 
ful, I  suppose  that  this  is  the  true  explanation.  She  says,  how- 
ever, that  now  she  has  both  her  mind  and  her  time  fully  occupied 
in  attending  to  a  young  wounded  soldier,  who  has  been  removed 
from  town  to  the  Hall." 

"  Who  is  he  ?"  asked  Charles,  quickly.  "  Is  he  an  old  ac- 
quaintance ?" 

"  No,  he  is  a  stranger.  Eva  supposes  him  to  be  about  ray 
age,  and  amuses  herself  greatly  at  the  maternal  care  that  sister 
bestows  upon  him,  and  at  the  gentle  but  firm  way  in  which  she 
enforces  her  authority.  She  says  that  she  is  constantly  expecting 
to  hear  Willie  call  her  '  Mother  Julia.'  I  don't  know  what  would 
become  of  that  child  if  she  could  not  make  fun  of  sister  I" 

Charles  worked  away  quietly  and  industriously  at  his  carving, 
relieved  to  hear  of  the  maternal  and  filial  relationship  and  feeling 
existing  between  Julia  and  the  object  of  her  care.  He  asked 
many  questions,  which  Walter  answered  with  unsuspicious  frank- 
ness, and  thus  he  gained  much  information  with  regard  to  Julia 
which  he  could  have  had  in  no  other  way.  It  refreshed  him  to 
hear  about  her ;  and  though  her  life  was  quiet  and  uneventful  to 
the  last  degree,  and  though  she  had  assured  him  that  it  was  use- 
less for  him  to  cherish  any  interest  iu  it,  still  the  interest  was 
there,  and  as  he  could  not  crush  it,  he  would  not  refuse  to  gratify 
it  by  listening  to  these  simple  home-details. 

After  he  had  exhausted  the  news  from  the  Hall,  Charles 
asked : 

"Did  your  sister  mention  Uncle  John?" 


CAMERON    HALL.  251 

"  Yes;  she  says  that  he  is  very  busy  attending  to  the  comfort  of 
the  wounded,  both  at  the  hospital  and  at  his  own  house.  She 
says  also  that  he  is  both  surprised  and  anxious  that  he  does  not 
hear  from  jou,  and  thinks  that  there  must  be  some  grave  reason 
for  your  silence." 

"  No  graver  one  than  the  want  of  time,  which  of  course  neither 
he  nor  any  one  else  not  actually  on  the  ground  can  ever  realize. 
I  have  not  had  time  since  the  battle  to  sleep,  much  less  to  write- 
and  the  two  brief  letters  that  I  have  sent  home  were  written 
when  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  be  doing  something  else.  However 
if  it  is  possible,  I  must  write  to  Uncle  John.  I  will  try  and  do 
so  to-night." 

"Then,"  said  Walter,  rising,  "I  suppose  that  you  have  no 
message  to  send  him  in  the  letter  that  I  am  going  now  to  write. 
I  cannot,  like  you,  wait  until  night,  for  then  I  am  so  tired  and 
stupid,  with  the  drill  and  camp-work,  that  I  am  fit  for  nothing 

but — bed,  I  was  going  to  say,  but  I  beg  the  soldier's  pardon I 

mean  fit  for  nothing  but  to  stretch  my  blanket  upon  the  ground, 
and  myself  upon  the  blanket.  It  is  astonishing  how  sweetly  and 
soundly  a  fellow  can  sleep  upon  the  ground  I  So  good-by, 
doctor  1     No  message,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Not  for  Uncle  John,  for  I  shall  write  to  him  myself;  but  for 
your  father  and  sisters,"  he  added,  with  a  slight  hesitation,  "my 
kindest  regards." 

Walter  strolled  leisurely  away,  whistling  "Dixie,"  and  his  com- 
panion sat  and  thought  how  different  was  the  message  of  his 
lips  from  that  in  his  heart.  He  had  now  put  the  finishing  touches 
to  the  last  figure  in  the  date,  1861. 

Charles  was  sorry  to  have  completed  his  task.  It  had  oc- 
cupied his  every  leisure  moment  for  more  than  two  weeks,  and 
he  had  become  almost  attached  to  this  rude  memorial,  all'  that 
was  left  him  now  of  a  friend  whom  he  had  sincerely  loved.  He 
was  about  to  lay  it  aside  as  finished,  when  he  suddenly  thought 
of  filling  a  vacant  space,  still  left,  with  a  few  words  of  Scripture. 
It  would  be  appropriate,  and  it  would  prolong  his  work.  He 
took  Julia's  prayer-book  from  his  pocket,  to  select  a  verse  from 
the  burial  psalter ;  it  opened  at  the  fly-leaf,  the  edge  of  which  he 
saw  was  neatly  folded  down  all  around.  The  sight  of  that  book 
always  awakened  memories  both  painful  and  perplexing ;  and  now, 
while  his  thoughts  were  in  an  instant  busy  with  that  last  night  at 
the  Hall,  he  mechanically  turned  the  edge  back  and  smoothed  it 
down  carefully.  Two  leaves  now  revealed  themselves,  and,  with 
the  edges  thus  folded,  had  formed  a  safe  receptacle  for  three  or 
four  small  and  faded  flowers,  which  now  fell  out  upon  the  cross 
which  was  lying  beside  him.    They  were  remembrancers  of  Julia, 


252  CAMERON    HALL. 

and  he  took  them  up  carefully  to  restore  them  to  their  place, 
when,  as  he  opened  the  leaves,  a  date  in  pencil-mark  attracted  his 
attention. 

Immediately,  as  at  the  touch  of  the  enchanter's  wand,  the 
scene  around  him  was  obliterated,  and  in  its  stead  arose,  with 
the  distinctness  of  present  reality,  that  well-remembered  Sunday 
evening  at  the  Springs,  two  years  before.  He  looked  with  sincere 
pleasure  upon  those  withered  flowers,  a  memento  of  past  enjoy- 
ment, and  at  the  same  time,  as  he  could  not  but  hope,  a  pledge 
of  future  happiness,  for  they  bore  silent  but  unmistakable  wit- 
ness to  feelings  which  her  actions  could  not  deny.  Whatever 
might  be  the  motives  that  now  actuated  her,  whatever  might  be 
that  insurmountable  obstacle  of  which  she  had  spoken,  of  this 
at  least  he  was  now  assured,  that  it  could  not  be  indifference  to 
him. 

Young  men  in  the  vigor  of  their  mental  and  physical  strength 
are  prone  to  despise  obstacles,  and  to  regard  them  as  only  giving 
zest  to  effort;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  if  Charles,  in  the 
enjoyment  of  this  unexpected  discovery,  should  have  deemed  all 
difficulties  as  trifles,  and  should  have  determined  that,  in  the  pur- 
suit of  this,  his  greatest  earthly  happiness,  he  would  acknowledge 
no  such  thing  as  failure.  Her  own  indifference  was  the  only  thing 
that  he  really  feared,  and  to  which  he  would  have  consented  to 
yield.  Xow  he  was  assured  that  this  did  not  exist;  and  looking 
with  gratitude,  nay,  almost  with  reverence,  upon  those  little  faded 
flowers,  he  resolved  that  nothing  but  death  should  separate  him 
from  Julia.  He  was  willing  to  await  her  time  ;  willing,  if  he 
could  not  himself  remove  the  obstacle,  to  wait,  if  she  so  decreed 
it,  until  its  removal  should  be  effected  by  other  hands  or  other 
means  ;  but  he  now  felt  a  strange  strength,  a  buoyancy  and  deter- 
mination of  purpose,  a  strange  expectation  of  final  success,  which 
was  altogether  disproportioned  to  the  cause  that  produced  it. 

It  was  a  pleasant  reverie,  and  one  from  which  he  did  not  care 
to  be  awakened  ;  but  his  dreams  of  future  happiness  were  in- 
stantly exchanged  for  the  waking  realities  of  his  present  life,  as 
a  voice  at  his  side  said : 

''You  is  wanted  at  the  hospital.  Master  Charles." 

He  started,  and  hastily  closed  the  book  upon  the  flowers,  afraid 
that  they  might  prove  the  tell-tale  to  his  thoughts  ;  but  he  smiled 
at  his  own  confusion,  as  he  turned  and  saw  only  the  black  face  of 
"HospitalJim." 

Jim  stood  by,  quietly  eating  a  mammoth  ginger-cake,  quite 
unconscious  of  his  proximity  to  those  withered  flowers  which  the 
young  master  so  jealousy  concealed,  and  quite  incapable  of  appre- 
ciating their  value  if  he  had  seen  them. 


CAMERON    HALL.  253 

Charles  felt  a  strange  repugnance  to  having  any  other  eyes  see 
those  flowers;   so,  holding  the  book  tightly,  he  replied : 

"  Very  well,  Jim.  Go  on,  I  will  be  at  the  hospital  before  you 
get  there." 

"No,  sir,"  he  replied,  doggedly.  "I  was  told  not  to  come 
back  without  the  doctor  ;  so  I'll  jest  wait  here  till  you  gits  ready 
to  go  " 

He  leaned  back  against  the  tree,  busy  with  his  cake,  perfectly 
contented  with  his  occupation,  and  altogether  indifl'erent  whether 
the  surgeon  should  respond  to  his  call  in  five  minutes  or  five 
hours.  The  only  thing  on  which  he  seemed  positively  determined 
was  not  to  go  without  him. 

Charles  saw  this,  and  so  he  said : 

"  Jim,  take  this  cross  and  put  it  in  my  tent,  and  then  I  will  go 
with  you." 

Jim  took  an  enormous  mouthful  of  cake — enough,  as  he  thought, 
to  last  him  to  the  doctor's  tent,  and,  putting  the  rest  into  his 
pocket,  shouldered  the  cross  and  left  it  where  he  was  told.  By 
the  time  that  he  returned,  the  flowers  had  been  replaced,  and 
three  others  just  like  them,  and  tied  by  a  blade  of  grass,  had 
been  transferred  from  a  private  memorandum  book  and  added  to 
them ;  the  leaves  had  been  folded  down  as  before,  and  the  prayer- 
book  restored  to  Charles's  pocket ;  and  now,  followed  leisurely  by 
Jim,  he  hurried  oS",  as  ready  to  use  the  surgeon's  knife  as  if  his 
heart  were  impervious  to  the  softer  feelings,  as  if  he  had  never 
lingered  fondly  over  a  withered  flower,  or  cherished  a  lover's 
dream  in  his  life. 

That  night,  when  all  the  stirring  sounds  of  the  camp  were 
hushed,  he  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Uncle  John.  In  it  there  was, 
as  Julia  had  commanded,  neither  mention  of  her  nor  allusion  to 
her ;  and  yet  Charles  felt  singularly  near  to  her  while  he  was 
writing,  and  lingered  over  the  letter  to  his  old  bachelor  friend, 
almost  as  he  might  have  done  if  he  had  been  writing  to  Julia 
herself.  Xever,  since  the  night  that  he  left  Cameron  Hall,  had 
he  felt  so  cheerful  and  contented  as  he  did  now;  and  when  he 
laid  him  down  to  sleep,  his   soldier  rest  was  made  sweeter  by  f 

dreams  of  Julia;  and  when  he  awoke  the  next  morning,  his  first  ^ 

sensations  w^ere  so  pleasurable  that  he  stopped  to  wonder  what 
made  them  so  ;  and  he  could  not  repress  a  feeling  of  disappoint- 
ment, when  he  remembered  that  his  castle  of  hope  and  happiness 
had  only  the  slender  foundation  of  a  withered  flower.  But  while 
he  could  not  but  acknowledge  that  his  hope  had  a  most  unsub- 
stantial basis,  still  the  hope  was  there  ;  and  with  a  lighter  heart 
and  a  more  elastic  step  than  he  had  had  since  he  had  been  in 

22 


254  CAMERON     HALL. 

camp,  he  left  his  tent  and  went  to  the  hospital  to  the  performance 
of  his  morning  duties. 

As  he  went  along,  shouts  and  peals  of  merry  laughter  from  a 
distance  reached  his  ears.     Charles  sighed,  and  thought : 

"  It  is  well  for  the  soldier  that  his  heart  can  so  easily  rebound 
and  so  readily  forget.  Poor  fellows  !  let  them  enjoy  themselves 
while  they  can ;  it  may  not  be  long  before  some  of  them  will  ex- 
change the  laugh  for  the  sigh,  the  merry  jest  for  the  groan  of 
agony  !" 

Again  the  air  rang  with  laughter,  of  which  Walter  Cameron 
was  the  cause,  and  in  which  he  joined  as  heartily  as  any  of  the 
rest.  It  was  his  turn  to  cook  for  the  mess ;  and  as  his  whole 
acquaintance  with  culinary  science  had  been  acquired  solely  by 
seeing  its  results  upon  his  father's  luxurious  table,  the  boys  were 
sure  to  enjoy  themselves  greatly  at  his  expense  whenever  he  was 
cook.  Fortunately  for  himself,  however,  Walter  had  soon  learned 
to  take  a  joke  good-humoredly ;  and  he  generally  enjoyed  as  much 
as  any  of  the  rest  the  merriment  occasioned  by  his  own  failures. 
Heretofore  he  had  always  experimented  on  biscuits,  which,  after 
his  best  efforts,  his  comrades  invariably  pronounced  it  a  great  pity 
to  eat,  since,  "in  case  the  ammunition  should  fail  some  time,  Cam- 
eron's biscuits  might  save  the  day."  And  since  he  had  been  so 
uniformly  unsuccessful  in  this  species  of  bread,  Walter  had  con- 
cluded this  time  to  try  another  kind,  and  he  had  ventured  upon  a 
loaf.  Forgetful,  or  perhaps  ignorant  that  "  a  little  leaven  leaven- 
eth  the  whole  lump,"  he  had  put  in  an  extra  quantity;  and  now, 
when  he  was  ready  to  commence  baking,  he  found,  to  his  dismay, 
that  his  dough,  disdaining  to  be  confined  to  the  narrow  limits 
that  he  had  assigned,  had  broken  through  all  restraints,  and,  in  a 
'state  of  vigorous  fermentation,  was  spreading  rapidly  all  over  the 
ground.  He  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  in  blank  amazement ;  but 
seeing  that  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  he  hailed  one  of  his  com- 
rades at  a  little  distance,  and  called  out  : 

"Hallo,  Xelson !     Come  quick!     There  is  a  perfect  eruption 
going  on  here  I" 
<^  Thus  summoned,  young  Nelson  came  with  all  speed;   and  when 

he  saw  the  cause  of  Walter's  consternation,  and  his  attitude  of 
helpless  surprise,  he  laughed  until  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 
Walter,  perplexed  as  he  was,  could  not  help  joining  him  ;  and 
Nelson,  perceiving  at  once  what  was  the  matter,  resolved  to  have 
another  joke  at  his  friend's  expense.  So  he  said  nothing,  but 
laughed  on  ;   and  presently  Walter  asked  : 

"Nelson,  what  under  the  sun  is  the  matter  with  the  thing?" 

"  Thing  !"  exclaimed  Nelson.  "  It  is  no  thing,  but  a  real  live 
animal,  the  like  of  which  I  never  saw  before !    Look  at  it,  work- 


CAMERON    HALL.  255 

ing  and  squirming  there  all  over  the  ground.  Let's  call  help, 
Cameron,  to  capture  the  varmint,  or  it  will  soon  run  all  over  the 
camp  !" 

"Nelson,  what  under  the  heavens  can  be  the  matter  with  my 
bread?"  said  Walter,  fairly  shouting  with  laughter. 

"Bread,  Cameron  !  You  don't  want  to  make  me  believe  that 
that  wriggling,  twisting  mass  there  is  meant  for  bread  I  I  would 
as  soon  have  a  Yankee  bullet  through  ray  brain  as  to  have  such 
active  bread  as  that  wandering  about  in  my  stomach  at  that 
rate !"  and  Nelson  went  to  the  door  and  called  loudly: 

"Hallo,  fellows  1  quick,  quick!" 

The  summons  was  answered  at  the  double  quick,  one  of  them 
stopping  to  seize  his  musket;  and  when  they  reached  the  tent, 
they  were  surprised  to  find  no  cause  of  alarm. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  one,  breathlessly. 

"  Nothing  that  your  musket  can  remedy,"  answered  Nelson. 
"  Part  of  Cameron's  dough  there  has  seceded,  that  is  all ;  so 
put  up  your  gun,  man,  for  muskets  and  bullets  won't  remedy 
secession." 

"  Well,  Nelson,  if  something  don't  remedy  it,  it  will  soon  all 
secede  at  that  rate,"  he  answered,  looking  at  the  dough  still 
stealing  over  the  sides  of  the  bucket  and  along  the  ground.  "  I 
think  your  breakfast  bread  'has  gone  up  the  spout.'  Is  there  no 
way  of  stopping  it?" 

"None  that  I  know.  Perhaps  Cameron  can  do  something; 
he  set  it  going." 

Attracted  by  the  peals  of  laughter,  quite  a  crowd  was  soon 
gathered  around  the  unconscious  bread,  which  still  worked  on. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it,  Cameron  ?"  asked  one. 

"  If  it  ever  gets  over  its  present  excitement,  I  propose  to  bake 
it  for  breakfast." 

"  Well,  the  Lord  help  the  soldier  who  eats  that  bread  !  It  will 
save  the  Yankees  one  bullet.  Government  and  government 
agents  seem  to  think  that  soldiers'  stomachs  are  made  of  India- 
rubber;  but  that  bread  would  puzzle  even  their  digestion  !" 

"Cameron,  what  did  you  do  to  it,  man?"  asked  another. 
"Where  did  you  discover  that  principle  of  life  that  it  seems  to 
have  ?" 

"  If  I  have  discovered  it,"  answered  Walter,  "I  must  acknowl- 
edge that  it  was  like  most  other  wonderful  discoveries,  purely 
accidental.  I  cannot  claim  it  to  be  the  result  either  of  profound 
research  or  of  great  culinary  skill.  To  tell  the  truth,  fellows," 
he  added,  laughing,  "I  am  puzzled  at  my  own  performance,  and, 
like  some  dabbler  in  the  black  art,  I  have  raised  up  a  power  that 
I  cannot  control." 


256  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Com*,  Cameron,"  said  Nelson,  "tell  us  how  you  compounded 
that  wunderfal  bread  ?    Give  us  your  recipe  now." 

"Indeed,  Nelson,  I  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  replied  Walter. 
"Who  knows  but  that,  if  I  keep  my  secret,  I  may  yet  make  a 
fortune  at  bread-making?  Perhaps,  when  the  Confederacy  is 
established,  I  will  take  out  a  patent  for  my  recipe." 

"Thar'll  be  one  vote  agin  that,  if  I'm  thar,"  said  a  rough  old 
fellow  in  a  butternut  suit.  "I'll  tell  'em  that  I  was  present  at 
Cameron's  first  bread-making,  and  that  I  can  swear  that  the  devil 
had  a  finger  in  it  1" 

"  Cameron's  recipe  I  Cameron's  recipe  I"  was  now  loudly  called 
for  by  several  voices. 

"I  cannot  tell  all  my  secret,  gentlemen,"  he  answered;  "but 
this  much  I  will  tell  you,  that  I  used  the  very  same  materials  that 
are  used  at  home  for  bread, — flour,  yeast,  and  water." 

"Do  you  eat  bread  like  that  at  your  home,  mister?"  inquired 
he  of  the  butternut  suit.  "I  wouldn't,  on  no  account,  eat  such 
restless  food !" 

Again  there  was  a  shout,  and  when  it  had  subsided,  Walter 
replied : 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  squire,  whether  or  not  the  bread  at  home 
is  as  restless  as  mine  when  it  is  in  the  same  stage  of  manufacture. 
I  only  know  that  when  it  comes  on  the  table  it  is  quiet  enough ; 
but  it  may  be  that  the  cooking  process  has  something  to  do  with 
that." 

"Give  us  the  proportions,  Cameron,"  said  Nelson.  "How 
much  flour  did  you  take  ?" 

"  Three  quarts." 

"How  much  leaven?" 

"I  had  no  leaven,  so  I  put  in  a  strong  tea  made  from  a  double 
handful  of  hops." 

"  The  Lord  defend  us  !"  exclaimed  the  old  man.  "If  the  boy 
didn't  put  enough  yeast  in  that  batch  of  bread  to  make  a  loaf  as 
big  as  the  Confederacy  I  We  needn't  fight  no  more,  boys.  Just 
let  that  young  fellow's  bread  alone,  and  you  will  soon  hear  of  an 
invasion  of  Yankeedom ;  and  it  can  overrun  it  without  any  help 
from  us  I" 

"It  would  b3  better  than  grape  and  canister  to  kill  off  Yan- 
kees, if  we  could  only  manage  to  feed  their  army  on  it,"  said 
Nelson.  "  Walter,  suppose  that  you  apply  for  a  situation  as  chief 
cook  at  Pope's  or  McDowell's  headquarters;  you  will  serve  your 
country  better  in  that  way  than  you  will  by  handling  the  musket." 

Walter  now  began  to  weary  of  the  joke,  but  there  was  no 
escape,  and  for  half  an  hour  longer  they  kept  up  a  merciless  fire 
of  merriment  at  his  expense.     At  last  Nelson  said  : 


CAMERON    HALL.-  25T 

"  Cameron,  is  that  bread  our  only  hope  for  breakfast?" 

"That  is  all,''  replied  Walter;  "and  if  you  can't  help  me  to 
doctor  it  somehow,  you  will  have  to  breakfast  on  fried  meat  and 
coffee,  for  it  is  too  late  to  make  any  other  bread  now.  By-the- 
way,  Nelson,  you  have  had  your  fun  at  my  expense :  it  is  but 
fair  that  you  should  help  me  cook  breakfast  to  pay  for  it.  If 
there  hadn't  been  all  this  hubbub  here  this  morning,  it  would 
have  been  ready  now.  The  boys  will  be  coming  in  from  picket- 
duty  presently,  as  hungry  as  wolves,  and  you  know  that  they 
don't  wait  very  patiently." 

"I  am  very  willing  to  help  you  about  anything  except  that 
bread.  That  is  your  own  manufacture,  and  I  will  not  consent 
to  rob  you  of  any  of  the  laurels  gained  thereby.  I  will  cook  the 
meat  and  make  the  coffee,  and  you  may  manage  the  bread." 

So  saying,  he  went  immediately  to  work,  and  the  crowd,  think- 
ing that  the  fun  was  over,  soon  dispersed. 

"  Is  there  anything  that  I  can  do  to  it.  Nelson  ?"  asked  Walter, 
shaking  his  head  disconsolately  as  he  removed  the  cover  from  the 
bucket  and  looked  in.  "  No  human  being  can  eat  it  as  it  is.  It 
smells  as  sour  as  vinegar,  and  how  must  it  taste  ?" 

Nelson  was  not  yet  satisfied  with  the  joke,  and  he  answered, 
demurely : 

"I  recollect  having  learned  in  chemistry  that  an  alkali  would 
neutralize  an  acid,  and  I  know  that  this  principle  is  sometimes 
acted  on  in  cooking;  for  I  have  heard  my  mother  send  word  to 
the  cook,  when  the  cakes  or  muffins  were  sour,  to  put  soda  into 
the  batter.  Now,  as  the  dough  is  sour,  perhaps  soda  would 
remedy  it  and  make  it  all  right." 

"  That  is  the  very  thing,  Nelson !"  exclaimed  Walter,  eagerly 
seizing  the  suggestion.  "  I  wonder  that  I  did  not  think  of  that 
myself,  for  I  have  often  heard  sister  send  word  to  Aunt  Sally 
that  the  buckwheat  cakes  were  sour,  and  needed  a  little  soda,  and 
when  the  next  came  in  I  could  not  taste  a  particle  of  acid. 
Hurrah  for  the  soda  I  My  bread  will  he  eatable  yet,  thanks  to 
you,  Nelson." 

He  bounded  off,  and  soon  returned  with  a  half-pound  package 
of  soda.  Nelson  busied  himself  with  the  meat  and  coffee,  steal- 
ing an  occasional  glance  at  his  companion,  who  was  now  once 
more  greatly  interested  in  his  bread.  The  greater  part  had 
made  its  escape  from  the  bucket,  and  there  was  not  much  dough 
left  on  which  to  experiment. 

"  How  must  I  mix  in  the  soda,  Nelson,  by  kneading  it  ?" 

"I  should  think  that  it  would  be  best  to  dissolve  it  in  water; 
otherwise  it  will  be  in  lumps  all  through  the  bread." 

A  cup-full  of  water  was  speedily  brought,  and  Nelson  could 

22*" 


258  CAMERON    HALL. 

scarcely  repress  a  shout  of  laughter,  as,  stealing  a  glance  from 
under  his  eyebrows,  he  saw  Walter  empty  the  half  pound  of  soda 
into  the  cup,  stir  it  round,  and  toss  the  whole  into  the  dough. 

"Now  knead  it  a  little,  Cameron,"  he  said. 

Walter  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and  worked  away  vigorously  at 
it  a  few  minutes,  and  then  said  : 

"  I  cannot  waste  any  more  time  on  it,  for  I  am  afraid  that, 
with  all  possible  haste,  it  will  not  be  done  by  the  time  that  the 
boys  come.     Is  the  oven  hot,  Nelson  ?" 

"I  should  think  it  wasl"  he  answered, "drawing  it  out  of  the 
fire,  red  hot.  ''  What  on  earth,  man,  made  you  bury  the  oven  in 
the  fire  that  way  ?  Now  you  will  have  to  wait  at  least  half  an 
hour  for  it  to  cool,  before  you  can  put  your  bread  in.  It  would 
burn  to  a  cinder  in  ten  minutes  in  such  an  oven  as  that." 

"  I  want  it  hot,"  replied  Walter.  "  The  bread  must  bake 
quickly;  there  is  no  time  to  spare." 

"  Well,  it  is  your  bread,  and  you  know  best,"  rejoined  Nelson. 

"  Do  you  think  that  it  is  really  too  hot,  Nelson  ?"  asked  Wal- 
ter, pointing  to  the  oven  glowing  like  a  furnace.  "I  am  in  a 
terrible  hurry." 

"It  is  too  hot  now,  Walter.  I  would  wait  a  little  while,  if  I 
were  in  your  place." 

Walter  sighed  impatiently,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down, 
looking  one  moment  to  see  if  the  boys  were  coming,  and  the  next 
to  see  if  the  oven  still  looked  red.  Just  so  soon  as  the  bright 
glow  had  subsided,  and  the  oven  had  resumed  its  natural  color, 
the  unfortunate  dough  was  put  in,  covered  up,  and  consigned  to 
its  fate. 

"  How  long  does  bread  require  to  bake  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Such  a  loaf  as  that  ought  to  be  allowed  from  a  half  to  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  I  should  think." 

"  Oh  !  but  the  oven  is  so  hot  that  less  time  will  do  for  this ; 
don't  you  think  so?" 

"  Probably  it  will,"  was  the  quiet  response. 

It  did  not  require  much  time  to  arrange  the  table-service. 
The  tincups  and  plates  were  soon  placed,  and  when  the  two 
boys  for  whom  they  had  been  waiting  arrived.  Nelson  said,  plac- 
ing the  coffee-pot  and  the  meat  upon  the  table : 

"Now  for  the  bread,  Walter!     We  are  all  ready." 

The  oven  was  uncovered,  and  revealed  a  charred  loaf  as  black 
as  a  similar  memorial  of  Pompeii's  fate,  which  the  traveler  sees 
in  the  museum  at  Naples. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Cameron  ?"  exclaimed  Nelson,  as  he  saw 
his  messmate  lingering  in  silent  dismay  over  the  oven. 

"  My  bread  is  burned  to  a  coal,"  he  replied,  solemnly. 


CAMERON    HALL.  259 

"Never  mind,"  said  Nelson,  "bring  it  along.  Perhaps  it  is 
only  the  outer  crust  that  is  burned." 

"  Hurry  along  with  the  bread,  Cameron  !"  called  out  one  of 
the  mess.  "  Never  mind  a  little  burn,  man.  We  will  not  be 
particular  this  morning,  for  we  are  very  hungry." 

The  loaf  was  brought,  as  dolorous  and  gloomy  a  specimen  of 
bread  as  was  ever  placed  before  hungry  men.  Nelson  laughed 
quietly,  as  he  said : 

"  Tolerably  well  cooked,  Cameron !  Well,  charcoal  is  said  to 
be  good  for  dyspepsia  !  How  is  it  inside,  Mat  ?"  he  asked  of  a 
young  fellow  who  was  vainly  trying  to  make  an  impression  upon 
it  with  a  knife. 

"I  cannot  storm  these  fortifications  with  a  knife,"  he  replied. 
"  If  you  will  go  to  headquarters,  Nelson,  and  borrow  a  pickaxe, 
perhaps  I  can  show  you  how  the  inside  looks ;  but  nothing  less 
than  that  will  make  an  impression  here.  I  give  it  up,"  he  said, 
pushing  it  away. 

"  Let  me  try,  said  Nelson,  who  was  determined  that  they 
should  not  only  look  at,  but  also  taste  the  result  of  a  mixture  of 
a  quart  of  yeast  with  half  a  pound  of  soda. 

He  took  a  stone,  and  with  a  sharp  blow  upon  the  knife  suc- 
ceeded in  penetrating  the  crust;  and  after  having  cut  two  or  three 
slices,  he  placed  the  plate  in  the  center  of  the  table,  saying,  with 
quiet  gravity : 

"  Here  it  is,  gentlemen.  In  military  parlance,  I  have  stormed 
the  outer  works.     I  leave  you  to  attack  the  citadel." 

If  the  charred  crust  of  the  loaf  was  uninviting,  it  offered  a 
tempting  looking  morsel  compared  with  the  black,  heavy,  un- 
baked dough,  which  Nelson  styled  the  citadel.  But  hungry 
soldiers  do  not  stop  for  appearances,  and  one  of  them,  helping 
himself  to  two  slices,  said : 

"It  does  not  look  very  inviting,  certainly;  but  perhaps  it 
tastes  better  than  it  looks.     At  any  rate  I  will  try  it." 

He  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  and  a  piece  large  enough 
for  two  ordinary  mouthfuls  found  its  way  into  his  mouth.  In 
an  instant,  as  if  touched  by  a  galvanic  battery,  he  sprang  from 
his  seat,  and  furiously  ejecting  the  intolerable  mouthful,  he  ex- 
claimed : 

"By  Heaven  1  I  am  poisoned  I" 

Nelson  jumped  up  from  the  table,  and  clapping  his  hands, 
shouted  and  screamed.  This  time  Walter  did  not  join  in  the 
laugh,  for  he  was  now  heartily  tired  of  furnishing  merriment  for 
the  camp. 

"  Confess  it,  Cameron  I"  exclaimed  Nelson.  "  Sold  this  time  I 
Mat,"  he  added,  turning  round  to  the  young  fellow,  who  was 


260  CAMERON    HALL. 

rinsing  his  mouth,  "is  the  bread  sour,  or  has  the  soda  realized 
Cameron's  expectations,  and  corrected  the  acidity  ?" 

"  Sour  !"  repeated  Mat.  "  I  don't  know ;  but  this  much  I  can 
tell  you,  that  no  Christian  man  ever  before  put  such  a  villainous 
compound  into  his  mouth.  It  might  have  been  concocted  in  a 
witch's  cauldron.  If  I  had  swallowed  that  morsel,  my  stomach 
would  have  had  no  coats  on  it  by  this  time.  What  in  the  thunder 
was  it  meant  for,  Nelson, — bread?" 

"Yes,  it  was  Cameron's  first  attempt  at  bread-making.  He 
only  made  a  slight  mistake,  by  putting  in  enough  yeast  to  make 
about  fifty  loaves  of  the  same  size ;  and  then,  by  way  of  correcting 
the  acidity,  he  added  soda  enough  to  have  neutralized  fifty  times 
the  amount  of  acid.  I  hope,  however,  that  the  next  time  he  at- 
tempts to  make  bread  he  will  succeed  better." 

"Amen !"  said  Mat,  making  a  wry  face  at  the  taste,  which 
still  lingered  in  his  mouth ;  and  then,  rising  from  the  table,  he 
proceeded  with  great  gravity  to  collect  every  crumb  of  the  so- 
called  bread. 

As  he  started  off  with  it.  Nelson  called  out: 

"Where  are  you  going.  Mat?" 

"  To  bury  Cameron's  bread !"  he  answered,  gravely.  "  I  don't 
intend  that  any  living  thing,  man  or  beast,  shall  ever  taste  such 
a  morsel  as  I  did  just  now.  I  swear,  Nelson,  it  would  kill  a 
turkey-buzzard  1" 

He  went  off,  and  left  Nelson  laughing.     Presently  he  said : 

"  Walter,  you  are  too  extravagant  a  cook.  Our  mess  cannot 
afford  such  lavish  use  of  materials.  Just  think  of  the  yeast  and 
soda  that  you  have  consumed  for  one  meal !  You  must  learn  to 
economize  before  your  turn  comes  round  again." 

"  I  hope,  Nelson,"  answered  Walter,  gravely,  "that  before  that 
time  I  will  have  somebody  to  cook  in  my  place,  who  will  be  less 
extravagant  and  more  successful.  I  shall  write  to  my  father  to- 
day and  tell  him  to  send  me  a  servant.  I  can  do  the  fighting 
well  enough,  but  the  cooking  is  beyond  my  comprehension  1" 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


As  Eva  had  written  to  her  brother,  Willie  was  already  quite 
domesticated  at  the  Hall,  and  Julia  was  glad  to  find  a  refuge 
from  her  thoughts  in  her  busy  care  of  him.  She  occupied  her- 
self with  him  more  than  his  comfort  positively  required,  and  the 


CAMERON    HALL.  261 

homesick  youth  found,  in  the  comfort  around  him,  in  the  kindness 
of  Mr.  Cameron,  and  the  attention  and  companionship  of  the 
sisters,  something  so  nearly  akin  to  home,  that  he  deemed  it  no 
great  sacrifice  to  bear  cheerfully  and  patiently  the  pain  that  he 
at  times  still  suffered.  His  room  was  always  adorned  with  the 
choicest  and  sweetest  flowers ;  his  couch  was  placed  by  a  win- 
dow which  opened  down  to  the  floor  and  looked  out  upon  a  pic- 
turesque scene  of  cultivated  fields  mingled  with  woodland,  and  a 
background  of  mountains,  and  he  had  access  at  all  times  either 
to  agreeable  companions  or  to  pleasant  books. 

"Lucky  fellow!"  he  thought,  as  he  glanced  around  and  con- 
trasted the  luxurious  comfort  and  quiet  of  his  room  with  the 
noise  and  discomfort  of  the  hospital.  "How  shall  I  ever  be 
thankful  enough  to  the  old  gentleman  who  sent  me  here,  and  to 
those  who  take  such  good  care  of  me  1  Such  kindness  is  enough 
to  make  a  soldier  of  a  fellow ;  and  if  he  may  expect  to  find,  in 
sickness  and  suffering,  a  mother  or  sister  in  every  woman  that 
he  meets,  then  indeed  the  Southern  women  will  find  an  army  ready 
to  fight  their  battles,  nerved  and  strung  to  conquer  or  die  I  I 
know  that,  when  I  go  into  battle  again,  the  thought  of  Cameron 
Hall  will  mingle  with  that  of  home,  and  I  will  fight  as  much  for 
one  as  for  the  other." 

"Willie,"  said  Julia,  coming  in  with  a  vase  of  flowers,  which 
she  placed  on  a  little  table  beside  his  couch,  "  what  message  for 
your  mother  this  morning  ?  You  are  doing  so  well  that  I  shall 
be  able  to  write  quite  an  encouraging  letter,  and  I  think  I  may 
venture  to  tell  her  that  the  air  of  Cameron  Hall  promises  to  re- 
store you  to  your  regiment  before  long." 

"  Xot  the  air.  Miss  Julia,  but  the  kindness  and  gentle  nursing 
of  the  Hall.  Tell  my  mother  to  dismiss  all  anxiety  about  me, 
for  never  was  a  young  soldier  so  well  cared  for  before.  Even 
she  herself  could  not  do  it  better." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  there,  Willie.  I  do  not  know  it  by  ex- 
perience, but  I  have  always  heard,  and  I  believe,  that  no  touch 
can  be  so  gentle,  no  look  so  soothing,  no  care  so  delicate,  as  a 
mother's." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  added,  thoughtfully  : 

"All  my  life  I  have  wanted  a  mother,  but  never,  never  so  much 
as  now !" 

Had  Willie  known  Julia  better,  he  would  have  been  surprised 
at  this  involuntary  confession  ;  but  he  did  not  know  how  reserved 
she  generally  was  with  regard  to  all  that  concerned  herself,  nor 
did  he  know  that  she  had  now  spoken  almost  unconsciously.  He 
felt  that  she  had  voluntarily  offered  him  the  privilege  of  sympa- 
thizing with  her ;  and  that  if  she  was  in  trouble,  as  her  words 


262  CAMERON     HALL. 

seemed  to  indicate,  a  quiet  indifference  and  unconcern  on  his 
part  would  be  but  a  poor  return  for  all  the  kindness  that  he  had 
received  from  her ;  so  he  said,  gently  : 

''Why  have  you  felt  the  need  of  a  mother  so  much  of  late, 
Miss  Julia  ?     Have  you  had  any  special  trouble  ?" 

His  words  recalled  her  to  herself,  and  she  answered,  evasively: 

"  I  think,  Willie,  that  the  older  a  motherless  daughter  grows,  the 
more  she  must  feel  the  need  of  a  mother's  guidance,  advice,  and 
companionship ;  but  besides  this,  I  have  of  late  felt  so  much  anx- 
iety about  Walter.  If  we  had  a  mother,  you  know  that  I  would 
only  have  to  feel  for  him  a  sister's  affection  and  concern  ;  but,  as 
it  is,  I  must  be  to  him  mother  as  well  as  sister." 

"  He  is  a  lucky  boy,"  replied  Willie,  earnestly,  "  to  have  a  sister 
so  capable  of  being  both  I  I'll  warrant  that  he  has  never  felt  the 
want  of  a  mother." 

"  You  must  not  say  that,  Willie.  Fortunately  for  you,  you  do 
not  and  cannot  know  the  feeling  of  a  motherless  child  ;  if  you 
did,  you  would  know  that  it  is  a  want,  a  void,  a  yearning  of  the 
heart  which  nothing  can  fill  or  satisfy." 

"  If  I  did  not  have  exactly  the  feeling,  I  came  pretty  near  it  in 
the  hospital.  No  motherless  boy  ever  felt  more  forlorn  or  or- 
phaned than  I  did  there.  I  was  so  desolate,  that  once  or  twice 
I  lost  all  my  manliness  and  became  a  very  baby.  I  am  afraid 
that  Uncle  John  thinks  me  but  a  sorry  soldier,  with  none  of  that 
stern  stuff  about  me  to  make  me  fit  for  the  camp  and  the  battle- 
field." 

"  That  is  the  error,  Willie,  into  which  boys  of  the  age  of  Walter 
and  yourself  are  apt  to  fall ;  and  if  you  foster  such  notions,  the 
effects  of  the  soldier's  life  upon  your  character  will  be  lamentable 
indeed.  To  be  a  soldier,  you  need  not,  you  must  not  cease  to  be 
a  man  I  You  must  not  think  that  you  are  not  fit  to  be  a  soldier 
until  you  have  crushed  all  the  humanity  out  of  your  heart,  and 
steeled  it,  if  not  to  enjoy,  at  least  to  be  indifferent  to  human  suf- 
fering. No,  Willie  1  ever  struggle  against  the  hardening  pro- 
cess ;  ever  remember  that,  if  you  would  be  a  true,  good,  valuable 
soldier,  one  who  will  neither  disgrace  your  profession  by  brutal- 
ity, nor  yet  falter  in  your  duty  to  your  country,  you  must  foster 
and  keep  alive  all  that  is  gentle  and  tender  and  human  in  your 
nature.  I  can  mention  now  one  such  soldier  in  our  army.  I 
doubt  not  that  there  are  many  more,  but  him  I  know  personally;  I 
allude  to  General  Robert  E.  Lee.  Papa  and  Uncle  John  know 
him  well;  and  I  have  heard  them  say  that  there  is  no  man  in  the 
country  who  combines  so  many  soldierly  qualities,  and  that  if  he 
lives,  and  this  war  lasts  two  or  three  years,  he  will  certainly  make 
for  himself  an  enviable  name  in  history.     Now,  if  you  should 


CAMERON    HALL.  263 

ever  know  General  Lee  as  I  do,  you  will  find  out  for  yourself  that 
no  woman  ever  had  a  kinder,  gentler  heart,  one  more  overflowing 
with  those  softer  feelings,  which,  instead  of  being  a  blemish  upon 
manhood,  are  rather  its  glory  and  its  crown.  Don't  covet,  Willie, 
that  'sterner  stuff'  which,  in  the  ears  of  boys  and  youths,  sounds 
so  manly;  to  be  a  true  man,  and  therefore  a  true  soldier,  needs 
the  development  of  human  characteristics  instead  of  those  that 
belong  to  the  brutes." 

"  Preaching  a  sermon  to  Willie,  as  I  live  !"  exclaimed  Eva, 
who  now  entered  the  door,  on  the  threshold  of  which  she  had 
been  standing  for  several  minutes.  "  What  was  the  text,  Willie  ? 
Unfortunately  I  came  too  late  for  that.  I  only  heard  what  papa 
says  the  old-fashioned  preachers  used  to  call  *  the  practical  appli- 
cation and  improvement  of  the  subject.'" 

Willie  could  not  help  laughing,  although  he  did  not  exactly 
know  how  Julia  would  take  this  pleasant  ridicule,  but  she  soon 
reassured  him,  by  saying: 

"  I  am  perfectly  accustomed  to  it,  Willie.  As  I  have  to  be  a 
mother,  as  I  told  you  just  now,  to  these  children,  there  is  scarcely  a 
day,  especially  when  she  and  Walter  are  together,  that  I  am  not 
obliged  to  administer  a  reproof  or  to  give  some  advice,  which  is 
always  received  with  a  laugh,  and  placed  in  the  category  of  'sis- 
ter's sermons;'  but  I  must  do  the  children  the  justice  to  say  that 
it  is  generally  remembered  and  acted  upon  afterward.  So,  if 
you  will  follow  their  example  in  the  one  case,  you  shall  have  the 
privilege  of  doing  so  in  the  other.  You  shall  laugh  at  my  '  sermon' 
just  as  much  as  you  please,  if  you  will  promise  to  remember  it." 

"  I  will.  Miss  Julia,  and  I  thank  you  for  the  lesson.  We  boys 
are  always  prone  to  be  ashamed  of  anything  that  looks  womanly, 
and  especially  is  this  temptation  great  in  the  army.  And  Eva," 
he  added,  laughing,  "  if  your  sister  does  preach,  you  must  admit 
that  she  has  what  the  critics  would  ball  'a  very  agreeable  manner 
in  the  pulpit.'" 

"  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  acknowledge  that,  Willie  ;  but  the 
greatest  recommendation  of  all  is  that  sister's  sermons  are  al- 
ways short.  She  has  not  adopted  the  old  Cameronian  style  of 
'  sixteenthly '  and  '  seventeenthly,'  but  what  she  has  to  say,  she 
puts  into  a  few  words  and  is  done  with  it." 

"Well,  Willie,  said  Julia,  "I  will  leave  you  and  Eva  to  criticise 
at  your  leisure  my  powers  of  sermonizing.  I  did  not  intend  to 
stay  a  moment  when  I  came  in ;  and  if  I  do  not  go  now  and  make 
haste  with  my  letter  to  your  mother,  I  will  not  have  it  ready  for 
the  mail." 

After  she  had  left  the  room,  Willie  said ; 

*'Eva,  you  ought  not  to  tease  so  good  a  sister." 


264  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Why,  bless  you,  Willie,  she  couldn't  live  without  it !  T7ncle 
John  often  tells  me  that  if  I  hadn't  sister  to  tease  I  would  die ; 
but  I  think  that  it  is  exactly  the  other  way.  She  is  so  quiet  that 
she  needs  stirring  up  now  and  then  ;  and  I  really  believe  that  if 
she  did  not  have  me  to  worry  her,  and  to  give  her  somebody  to 
preach  to  and  advise,  the  quiet  of  her  life  would  amount  to  posi- 
tive stagnation.  Indeed,  Willie,"  she  added,  laughing,  "sister 
owes  me  a  debt  of  gratitude  that  she  can  never  repay,  and  the 
most  provoking  part  of  it  is  that  she  does  not  seem  even  con- 
scious of  the  obligation  !  I  act  as  a  sort  of  moral  mustard- 
plaster,  and  keep  up  just  enough  excitement  and  irritation  in  her 
nature  to  produce  a  healthful  action.  You  ought  to  see  her 
sometimes,  when  Carlo  and  I  come  racing  into  the  hall  together, 
Carlo  leaving  his  muddy  tracks  all  over  the  floor  which  has  just 
been  polished,  and  I,  with  my  hair  all  down,  my  face  glowing 
like  a  poppy,  and  a  rent  across  one  whole  breadth  of  my  dress. 
You  ought  to  hear  her  sermon  then,  and  how  eloquently  she  dis- 
courses upon  ladylike  manners,  propriety,  and  dignity;  and  how 
forcibly  she  illustrates  it  by  the  striking  contrast  of  the  present 
scene.  But  if  the  words  and  manner  of  the  lecturer  upon  such 
occasions  are  remarkable,  not  less  so  is  the  penitent  aspect  of  the 
culprit,  who  listens  demurely,  but  in  her  heart  is  all  the  while 
longing  for  just  such  another  romp.  I  must  get  up  one  of  these 
scenes  for  your  special  benefit,  Willie ;  they  are  decidedly  rich. 
So  you  must  neither  be  shocked  nor  amazed  ;  above  all,  you 
must  not  be  so  startled  as  to  move  from  your  position,  and  set 
your  wound  to  bleeding,  if  some  of  these  days,  when  you  and  sister 
are  having  a  proper  ladylike  conversation,  Carlo  and  I  should 
come  bounding  into  the  room  with  liitle  ceremony  and  less  dig- 
nity, and  I  should  present  an  appearance  by  no  means  suitable 
for  the  sister  of  Miss  Julia  Cameron,  and  by  no  means  creditable 
to  Cameron  Hall." 

"I  don't  think,  Eva,  that  these  frolics,  and  the  lectures  conse- 
quent thereupon,  can  be  of  very  frequent  occurrence.  I  have 
been  here  now  nearly  two  weeks,  and  nothing  of  the  kind  has 
happened  during  that  time,  or,  if  it  has,  it  has  not  disturbed  the 
quiet  of  my  room." 

"No,  indeed!  I  had  my  instructions  on  that  point  before  you 
came.  Sister,  as  I  told  you,  never  preaches  long  sermons ;  but 
when  she  considers  the  subject  of  great  practical  importance,  she 
sometimes  gives  me  the  benefit  of  two  or  three  at  different  times 
from  the  same  text.  Now  I  assure  you  that,  for  days  before  you 
came,  I  was  told  how  I  was  to  behave :  '  that  I  must  act  in  a  man- 
ner becoming  my  father's  daughter ;  that  I  must  remember  that 
you  were  not  Walter,  but  a  stranger,  etc.  etc'     I  must  confess 


CAMERON    HALL.  265 

that  all  these  arguments  weighed  but  little  with  me  ;  but  when  she 
finished  by  saying  that  I  must  not  forget  that  you  were  sick,  and 
were  brought  from  the  hospital  to  enjoy  here  the  repose  and 
quiet  which  were  necessary,  and  which  you  could  not  have  there, 
and  that  I  must  walk  more  quietly  through  the  house,  and  not 
sing  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and,  in  short,  not  make  any  unneces- 
sary noise,  that  was  an  argument  that  I  could  appreciate ;  and  it 
is  to  this  that  you  owe  the  remarkable  fact  that  Carlo  and  I  have 
not  had  a  romp  either  in  the  house  or  near  it  since  you  have  been 
here.  I  confess,  however,  Willie,  that  it  has  nearly  been  the 
death  of  me  to  play  lady  so  long !  Even  Carlo  is  surprised,  and 
looks  at  me  in  the  most  earnest,  inquiring  manner,  as  if  to  say, 
'  What  upon  earth  can  be  the  matter  with  my  young  mistress  ?' 
I  trnst  that  you  will  soon  get  well  enough  to  bear  a  little  noise, 
for,  indeed,  I  am  afraid  that  I  cannot  hold  out  much  longer." 

"Pray,  Eva,"  replied  Willie,  laughing,  "don't  try  to  hold  out 
any  longer,  for,  indeed,  I  am  quite  as  able  to  bear  noises  as  I 
ever  was  in  my  life ;  and  even  when  I  first  came  here,  the  sounds 
of  merriment  would  have  been  by  no  means  unwelcome.  It  was 
the  sounds  of  suffering,  the  groans  of  the  })oor  fellows  around  me, 
that  disturbed  me  at  the  hospital.  So  I  earnestly  protest  against 
being  for  another  moment  any  restraint  upon  the  freedom  or 
pleasure  of  either  yourself  or  Carlo." 

"  Thank  you,  Willie !  but  I  am  afraid  to  avail  myself  of  your 
permission  quite  yet.  If  you  should  have  a  fever,  or  should  be  in 
any  respect  worse  the  day  after,  sister  would  always  believe  that  the 
noise  had  made  you  so,  and,  what  is  worse,  she  would  convince 
me  so  too,  and  tlien  I  should  be  very  much  distressed.  So  I  will 
try  and  wait  a  little  longer  for  my  romp  ;  but,  indeed,  I  must  stop 
playing  demure  and  dignified,  Willie ;  it  is  too  great  an  effort." 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  ever  attempted  it,  Eva,  especially,"  he 
added,  with  a  mischievous  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "since  the  effort 
was  so  entirely  unsuccessful.  If  you  had  not  told  me,  I  should 
never  have  dreamed  that  you  had  been  trying  to  play  either  de- 
mure or  dignified." 

"Now,  Willie,"  she  exclaimed,  "that  is  the  unkindest  cut  of 
all !  There  is  nothing  so  discouraging  as  to  be  told  of  complete 
failure  after  a  great  effort ;  and  if  you  thought  me  unsuccessful, 
you  might  at  least  have  spared  me  the  pain  of  hearing  it.  But, 
see  here  !  I  had  almost  forgotten  what  I  came  for.  Here  is  the 
morning  paper,  with  a  long  and  interesting  account  of  the  battle. 
The  details  are  much  fuller  than  any  that  we  have  had  before,  and  I 
thought  that  perhaps  you  would  like  for  rae  to  read  them  to  you." 

"And  so  I  would,  very  much,  indeed  !" 

"Your  regiment  is  spoken~of  in  terms  of  the  highest  praise, 

23 


266  CAMERON    HALL. 

and  its  gallantry  is  said  to  have  been  unsurpassed.  The  color- 
bearer,  a  young  Alabamian,  is  especially  commended  for  the  ten- 
acity with  which  he  held  his  flag  after  receiving  one  severe  wound, 
until  another,  which  it  was  feared  would  prove  mortal,  prostrated 
him.  Then,  as  he  fell,  a  comrade  seized  the  flag,  and  as  he  sur- 
rendered it,  he  said  :  *  Hold  it  until  vou  die  !'  That  is  what  I 
like,  Willie,"  she  added,  her  bright  face  glowing  with  enthusiastic 
admiration  ;  "that  is  what  I  call  being  a  soldier,  indeed  !  I  hope 
and  trust  that  his  wound  will  not  prove  mortal,  and  I  wish  that 
they  had  sent  him  to  me  to  take  care  of;  it  would  be  a  privilege, 
indeed,  to  nurse  such  a  soldier!  You  are  an  Alabamian,  Willie; 
perhaps  you  know  him,  do  you  ?" 

Willie  blushed  as  deeply  as  any  girl,  and  replied: 

''Your  wish  has  been  gratified,  Eva.  You  have  had  what  you 
call  the  privilege  of  nursing  the  young  color-bearer  from  Alabama, 
and  he  has  had  the  much  greater  privilege  of  receiving  such  care 
and  attention  as  seldom  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  poor  soldier.  And 
if,"  he  added,  gratefully,  "his  wound  has  not  proved  mortal,  as 
was  expected,  it  is  owing  to  the  gentle  and  watchful  care  of  the 
two  best  nurses  in  the  Southern  Confederacy." 

It  was  now  Eva's  turn  to  blush  crimson,  and  she  was  so  con- 
fused that  for  several  minutes  there  was  an  awkward  silence.  At 
last,  more  to  break  it  than  from  any  other  reason,  she  asked  : 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  us  this  before,  Willie  V^ 

"  I  had  nothing  to  tell.  I  only  did  my  duty;  and  if  I  had  not, 
I  would  not  have  been  any  soldier  at  all.  I  only  did  what  any 
other  man  in  the  regiment  would  have  done  ;  only  what  all  the 
other  regimental  color-bearers  did.  They  were  so  fortunate  as 
not  to  be  shot  down  ;  if  I  had  escaped,  as  they  did,  I  should  not 
have  been  mentioned  either." 

"  Come,  Willie,  it  is  not  fair  and  just  thus  to  underrate  your 
actions.  It  must  have  been  something  above  the  common  valor 
of  the  soldier,  or  it  would  not  have  been  thus  commented  upon 
among  so  many  acts  of  bravery.  Tell  me  about  it.  How  did 
you  do  ?" 

"  I  carried  my  flag,  as  I  was  bound  to  do,  until  I  could  carry 
it  no  longer." 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  Eva.  "You  are  provokingly  modest  I 
I  wish  that  I  could  see  an  eye-witness,  that  I  might  hear  from  him 
what  you  yourself  are  too  bashful  to  tell  me.  It  is  so  much 
pleasanter,  so  much  more  like  reality,  to  hear  about  these  scenes 
from  those  who  were  actors  in  them,  than  to  read  newspaper  de- 
scriptions. But  I  suppose  that  I  mus-t,  in  this  instance,  be  con- 
tented with  the  latter." 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  replied  Willie,  quietly. 


CAMERON    HALL.  267 

"Provoking  boy!"  she  exclaimed;  and  then,  bursting  into  a 
merry  laugh,  she  said  :  "  What  would  sister  say,  what  would  she 
think,  if  she  had  heard  me  call  you  '  boy '?  Indeed,  Mr.  Willie," 
she  continued,  with  mock  gravity,  "  you  must  excuse  my  thought- 
lessness. Hereafter  I  will  try  to  remember  that  you  are  not  a 
common  soldier,  but  the  distinguished  young  color-bearer  from 
Alabama,  worthy  of  mention  in  the  public  newspapers;  and  per- 
haps, when  my  own  dignity  and  sense  of  propriety  are  not  suffi- 
cient to  induce  me  to  treat  you  with  becoming  respect,  this  will 
help  me  to  do  it.  Are  you  ready  now  to  hear  the  account  of  the 
battle  of  Manassas  ?" 

Willie  expressed  his  readiness,  and  Eva  read  the  full  details. 
As  she  folded  up  the  paper,  she  asked : 

"And  now,  sir  color-bearer,  is  it  a  faithful  statement  of  facts 
with  regard  to  you  ?" 

"It  is  true,"  he  answered,  modestly  but  truthfully. 

"  Then  you  are  a  brave  boy  !  Excuse  me,  I  meant  to  say  that 
you  are  a  brave  soldier." 

Just  then  Julia  came  in,  with  the  letter,  to  read  to  Willie,  and 
to  ask  if  he  wished  anything  added  to  it. 

"Oh,  sister!"  exclaimed  Eva,  "what  do  vou  think?  Willie 
proves  to  be  the  brave  color-bearer  from  Alabama,  spoken  of  Iq 
this  paper  !" 

Julia  went  up  to  him,  her  face  sparkling  with  pleasure,  and 
taking  his  hand,  held  it,  while  she  said  : 

"You  were  welcome,  Willie,  as  the  Confederate  soldier,  to  the 
hospitalities  and  attentions  of  the  Hall ;  you  are  now  thrice 
welcome,  as  one  who  has  nobly  and  bravely  done  his  duty  1  Surely 
our  country  will  be  free,  when  her  sons,  scarcely  more  than  boys, 
can  make  such  soldiers  !" 

Willie's  dark-blue  eyes  kindled,  and  his  face  glowed,  as  he  an- 
swered, in  a  low  tone  of  emotion  : 

"And  she  will  always  have  such  soldiers  as  long  as  she  has  such 
daughters  !  I  have  suffered  much  since  I  have  been  wounded, 
but  the  lesson  that  I  have  learned  is  worth  the  pain.  When  I 
see  the  women  of  our  country,  reared,  as  they  have  been,  in  lux- 
ury, lay  aside  their  ease  and  pleasure,  and  cheerfully  take  their 
places  beside  the  beds  of  pain  and  suffering,  I  read  in  this  a 
pledge  of  success  as  reliable  as  the  strength  of  armies ;  for  a  na- 
tion of  such  mothers,  daughters,  and  sisters  must  make  an  army 
of  invincible  soldiers.  Think  you,"  he  added,  with  increasing  ex- 
citement, "that  I  could  ever  falter  now?  that  I  could  abandon 
my  flag,  or  betray  any  trust  committed  to  me  ?  If  I  could,  the 
thought  of  Cameron  Hall  and  its  true  Southern  hearts  would 
burn  my  soul' with  scorching  shame  I    You  have  made  a  soldier 


268  CAMERON     HALL. 

of  me  now ;  for  now  I  know  that  the  soldier  is  not  uncared  for ; 
now  I  know  that  he  is  remembered  and  prayed  for  in  danger,  and 
nursed  in  suffering;  and  this  knowledge  will  nerve  my  arm  with 
strength  and  inspire  my  heart  with  courage." 

"  Hush,  Willie,"  said  Julia,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  forehead. 
You  must  not  get  excited  now,  or  you  may  not  be  able  for  along 
time  to  bear  the  colors  into  battle  again.  Your  cheeks  are 
flushed  ;  I  ought  not  to  have  permitted  this,"  she  said,  anxiously, 
"ind'jed  I  ought  not." 

''Never  mind,  Miss  Julia,  it  will  not  hurt  me.  I  will  keep 
very  quiet  now,  and  if  I  can,  I  will  go  to  sleep,  and  when  I  wake 
up  I  will  be  all  right  again." 

"Please  do,  Wiilie,"  she  answered.  "Every  time  that  the 
doctor  comes  he  er.joius  perfect  quiet  as  necessary  for  you  ;  and  if 
this  excitement  should  give  you  fever,  we  would  all  reproach  our- 
selves very  much.  Will  you  promise  now  to  keep  perfectly  still 
for  the  next  two  hours  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will." 

"Then  we  will  go  down  and  leave  you  alone.  Suppose  that  I 
cut  this  paragraph  out  of  the  paper,  and  inclose  it  in  my  letter 
to  your  mother  ;   what  do  you  say,  Willie'?" 

"It  will  gratify  her  very  much.  Miss  Julia;  for  although  she 
will  read  it  herself  in  the  papers,  stiil  she  will  like  to  know  that 
her  boy  has  already  found,  among  strangers,  friends  who  take  in- 
terest enough  in  him  to  read  a  notice  like  this  with  pleasure." 

"  Then  I  will  send  it.  Come,  E\"a,  take  that  book  lying  there 
on  the  table,  and  put  it  out  of  Willie's  reach.  And  remember, 
Willie,  that  the  nurse's  commands  are  imperative.  Go  to  sleep, 
if  you  can,  and  if  not,  keep  perfectly  still.  If  you  want  anything, 
ring  the  bell;   I  put  it  on  the  table,  here,  within  your  reach." 

She  darkened  the  room  and  went  down  stairs,  leaving  her 
patient  little  inclined  to  sleep,  but  very  comfortable  and  happy, 
and  feeling  (young  soldier  that  he  was)  that  this  brief  newspaper 
encomium,  sweet  foretaste  of  the  glory  that  he  coveted,  was  worth 
the  pain  and  suffering  that  he  had  endured. 

Julia  went  to  her  domestic  duties  with  a  heart  heavier  even 
than  was  its  wont.  Like  Uncle  John,  she  too  had  thought  much 
and  anxiously  about  Charles  Beaufort's  silence,  and  had  feared 
that  there  was  some  serious  reason  for  it.  Her  thoughts  were 
now  as  busy  with  him  as  her  hands  were  with  her  duties,  when 
all  at  once  she  was  startled  by  Eva's  voice  calling  through  the 
house : 

"  Sister  !  sister  I  where  are  you  ?  Uncle  John  is  here,  and 
he  has  a  long  letter  from  Dr.  Charles  !" 

Julia  was  thankful  that  Eva's  usual  impetuosity  had  commu- 


CAMERON    HALL.  269 

nicated  her  intelligence  while  she  was  still  afar  off.  She  was 
glad  to  be  alone  for  a  minute,  that  she  might  still  the  quickened 
heart-throb,  and  let  the  tell-tale  blood  have  time  to  regain  its 
quiet  flow.  She  did  not  answer,  and  presently  Eva  burst  into 
the  room. 

"  Haven't  you  finished  your  housekeeping  at  this  time  of  day  ? 
I  have  searched  everywhere  for  you,  and  only  came  to  the  pantry 
as  a  last  resort.  But  come  along  quickly.  Uncle  John  is  in  a 
hurry ;  and  moreover,  he  declares  that  I  shall  not  hear  one  word 
of  the  letter  until  you  come." 

"I  am  ready,"  was  the  reply,  and  together  they  started  for 
the  library ;  but  Eva's  impatience  quickly  outstripped  her  sister's 
deliberate  movements,  which  were  in  striking  contrast  to  the 
eagerness  with  which  she  generally  went  to  see  Uncle  John.  But 
Julia  had  a  purpose  to  accomplish,  and  she  was  determined  to 
gain  complete  control  over  her  feelings  before  she  listened  to  that 
letter.  She  knew  that  Uncle  John's  eyes  were  quick  and  pen- 
etrating, and  from  him,  more  than  anybody  else,  she  was  determ- 
ined to  hide  her  present  feelings  and  her  past  action.  She  well 
knew  that  if  he  should  ever  suspect  the  suffering  that  she  had 
inflicted  upon  herself,  as  well  as  upon  Charles,  that  he  would 
make  a  strong  effort  to  induce  her  to  alter  her  decision ;  and  she 
was  not  willing  to  subject  herself  to  the  pain  of  a  discussion  which 
could  not  change  her  purpose.  When  she  reached  the  library, 
Eva  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  beside  Uncle  John,  turning  the  letter 
impatiently  in  her  hands,  and  complaining  of  slow  people  in  gen- 
eral and  her  sister  in  particular. 

"  You  ought  not  to  complain  of  her  this  time,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing. "It  is  not  often  that  she  is  too  slow.  Julia  is  no  slug- 
gard." 

"And  that  is  the  very  reason  why  it  is  so  provoking,  Uncle 
John.  She  is  generally  so  brisk  and  active,  that  it  only  makes 
it  the  harder  to  bear,  especially  when  I  am  so  impatient.  I  should 
think,  too,  that  she  would  be  anxious  herself  to  hear  from  Dr. 
Charles,  for  she  knows  how  uneasy  you  have  been  about  him." 

Julia  felt  uncomfortable  ;  and  wishing  to  stop  Eva  before  her 
thoughtless  words  should  call  up  the  blood  to  her  cheeks,  she 
said : 

"Well,  I  am  here  now,  Eva,  and  you  are  delaying  the  reading 
of  the  letter  as  long,  by  your  complaints  of  me,  as  I  did  by  my 
slow  movements.     Uncle  John,  please  begin." 

It  was  not  what  might  be  exactly  a  sad  letter,  for  Charles  had 
tried  hard  not  to  make  it  so  ;  but  it  was  not,  and  could  not  be  a 
very  cheerful  one,  for  the  soldier  has  to  look  upon  more  than  one 
battle-field  before  he  can  be  otherwise  than  painfully  saddened  by 

23* 


270  CAMERON     HALL. 

the  sight.     It  was,  however,  interesting  to  the  girls,  as  well  as  to 
Uncle  John  ;  and  to  one  of  them  much  more  so  than  he  imagined. 

"Poor  fellow!"  he  said,  as  he  replaced  the  letter  in  the  en- 
velope, "he  has  had  a  sad,  toilsome  time,  during  the  last  few 
weeks.  I  wish  that  he  could  indulge  in  a  little  recreation,  and 
give  me  a  day  or  two.     It  would  do  us  both  good." 

"Write  and  ask  him  to  do  so,  Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  "and 
tell  him  how  glad  we  would  be  to  see  him." 

"I  will  deliver  your  message,  my  daughter,  when  I  write.  The 
invitation  will  not  be  the  less  welcome  because  he  cannot  accept 
it.     But  he  cannot  come  now  ;   he  cannot  be  spared." 

"Only  for  two  or  three  days,  Uncle  John.  That  could  not 
possibly  make  any  difference." 

"You  would  not  think  so,  Eva,  if  Walter  were  dangerously 
wounded  and  under  his  care.  How  would  it  answer  for  Willie's 
surgeon  to  go  off  and  spend  several  days  ?" 

"Oh,  Uncle  John,  that  would  never  do!  His  wound  requires 
daily  attention,  and  sometimes  the  doctor  says  that  he  ought  to 
see  it  oftener,  and  he  is  afraid  that  Willie  was  taken  av/ay  from 
the  hospital  too  soon." 

"Well,  Eva,  bad  as  Willie's  case  is,  there  are  many  under  Dr. 
Beaufort's  care  which  are  perhaps  much  worse ;  so  that  you  can 
yourself  see  how  impossible  it  would  be  for  him  to  leave  his  post 
even  for  a  single  day.     Indeed " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  a  bell  rung  violently,  and 
Julia,  springing  up,  exclaimed: 

"  Something  is  the  matter  I  he  has  never  rung  that  way  before." 

She  ran  oat  of  the  room,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  reappeared, 
her  face  pale  with  terror,  and  tremMing  in  every  limb. 

"Oh,  Uncle  John!"  she  exclaimed,  breathlessly,  "come  quick 
to  Willie,  or  he  will  bleed  to  death  !  Eva,  send  Tom  for  the  sur- 
geon. Tell  him  to  take  the  fleetest  horse,  and  to  go  like  light- 
ning !" 

She  rushed  back  up  stairs,  followed  by  Uncle  John,  whose 
presence  at  that  moment  was  most  opportune.  The  moment  that 
he  entered  the  room,  he  saw  that  it  might  indeed  prove  a  serious 
matter.  Willie's  wound  was  bleeding  profusely,  and  his  clothes 
and  bed  were  already  saturated  with  blood.  Uncle  John  was  no 
surgeon  ;  but  in  his  attendance  at  the  hospital  his  assistance  had 
several  times  been  required  in  an  emergency ;  and  seeing  that 
there  was  now  no  time  to  be  lost,  he  immediately  applied  himself 
to  stop  the  bleeding  as  best  he  could,  until  the  arrival  of  the 
surgeon. 

Julia  sank  into  a  chair,  deadly  pale,  sick,  and  faint  with  the 
unaccustomed  sight.     Uncle  John  knelt  beside  the  couch,  with 


CAMERON    HALL.  271 

both  hands  busily  occupied  in  his  bloody  work.     Finding  that  he 
must  have  assistance,  he  said  : 

"Come  here,  my  daughter.     I  must  have  help." 

"  I  cannot,  indeed,  I  cannot,  Uncle  John,"  she  murmured. 

"Julia,"  he  said,  sternly,  "come  here;  you  must  come." 

This  time  she  obeyed  mechanically ;  and  when  she  reached  the 
couch,  he  said  : 

"Bend  down,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

She  bent  down,  and  he  whispered  : 

"The  boy's  life  is  in  danger ;  help  me  to  save  it  I" 

"The  boy's  life  is  in  danger  I"  The  effect  was  magical.  She 
arose  from  her  stooping  position,  stood  an  instant  to  recover  and 
compose  herself;  and  then,  still  deadly  pale,  but  perfectly  calm, 
with  a  steady  hand  and  unshrinking  nerve,  she  assisted  Uncle 
John.  Twice  the  feeling  of  faintness  came  over  her,  but  with 
strong  effort  she  overcame  it,  and  was  still  busy  when  the  surgeon 
arrived. 

"We  have  done  what  we  could,  sir,"  said  Uncle  John;  "for 
we  dared  not  let  this  thing  go  on  until  you  could  get  here.  We 
have  not  done  it  skillfully,  but  we  have  at  least  stopped  the 
bleeding." 

"It  is  well  for  him,"  he  answered,  "that  you  were  able  to  do 
it  at  all.  From  what  I  see,  if  the  bleeding  had  gone  on  at  that 
rate  until  now,  there  would  be  very  little  use  in  stopping  it. 
You  have  done  it  quite  well,  too,"  he  added,  as  he  settled  himself 
to  finish  what  was  already  begun.  "You  and  your  young  friend 
will  have  to  take  a  diploma,  and  get  a  situation  somewhere  in 
the  army  hospitals.  I  should  scarcely  imagine  that  she  would 
have  nerve  enough  for  such  work  as  this." 

Julia  stood  and  watched  the  surgeon,  thinking  that  what  had 
occurred  once  might  happen  again,  and  that  she  might  some  time 
be  obliged  alone  to  try  and  save  Willie's  life.  When  she  had 
seen  the  last  bandage  wrapped,  and  the  last  pin  put  in  its  place, 
she  turned  to  leave  the  room.  Willie's  eyes  followed  her,  and 
when  she  reached  the  door  he  saw  her  grasp  it  as  if  to  keep  from 
falling.     He  looked  at  Uncle  John,  and  said,  feebly; 

"Go  with  her." 

Uncle  John  hastened  to  follow  her,  and  he  found  her  tottering 
along  the  passage.  He  just  had  time  to  clasp  her  with  his  arm 
as  she  was  falling,  and  carrying  her  into  her  own  room,  he  laid  her 
upon  the  bed. 

"As  true  and  brave  a  woman  as  God  ever  made  I"  he  could  not 
help  saying,  as  she  lay  pale  and  still  lifeless,  while  he  dashed  the 
water  into  her  face.  It  was  some  minutes  Wore  consciousness 
returned,  and  the  first  words  that  she  spoke  were : 


272  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Don't  tell  Willie ;  it  might  make  him  unwilliug  for  me  to  help 
him,  if  it  should  again  be  necessary." 

She  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow,  but  it  fell  back  again,  and 
she  said,  faintly  : 

"More  water,  Uncle  John." 

After  a  little  while,  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  said,  resolutely : 

"  This  will  not  do.  Help  me  to  stand  up,  and  it  will  be  over 
in  a  few  minutes.  Lead  me  to  the  window ;  I  want  the  fresh 
air." 

He  tried  to  oppose  her,  but  she  was  determined,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  she  seemed  indeed  quite  revived. 

"Thank  you.  Uncle  John!"  she  said.  "You  are  an  excellent 
nurse.  I  only  wish  that  I  were  so  good  a  one,  and  not  so  foolish 
as  to  be  overcome  by  the  sight  of  a  little  blood.  However,  this 
is  the  last  time  that  such  a  thing  will  happen.  If  there  were  no 
one  else  to  do  it,  I  would  not  hesitate  to  go  this  minute  and  bind 
up  that  wound  just  as  you  did;  and  I  believe  that  I  could  do  it 
without  moving  a  muscle." 

"I  would  not  like  to  see  you  try  it  alone,  just  now,  Julia,  either 
on  your  own  account  or  Willie's;  but  I  would  not  be  afraid  to 
trust  you  to-morrow.  And  remember,  my  daughter,  what  I  tell 
you.  His  very  life  depends  upon  having  it  stopped  immediately. 
Think  of  this,  if  it  should  be  necessary  for  you  to  act,  and  it  will 
nerve  you  again,  as  it  has  done  to-day." 

"  I  know  it.  Uncle  John.  It  was  that  alone  that  enabled  me 
to  help  you  just  now.  When  you  first  spoke  to  me,  I  was  weak 
and  powerless;  but  the  moment  that  you  said  'save  his  life,'  I 
felt  equal  to  anything,  and  I  could  have  worked  with  you  an 
hour  longer,  if  it  had  been  necessary.  It  was  only  when  the  ex- 
citement was  over  that  I  gave  way;  but  next  time  I  will  be 
more  of  a  woman,  and  won't  give  way  at  all  I" 

"  Why,  what  does  all  this  mean  ?"  exclaimed  Eva,  coming  into 
the  room,  and  seeing  something  unusual  in  her  sister's  appear- 
ance, and  Uncle  John  still  fanning  her.    "Are  your  sick,  sister  ?'' 

"Not  now,  Eva;  but  I  was  quite  sick  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"  She  fainted,  Eva,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  after  helping  me  to  tie 
up  Willie's  wound." 

"  I  should  have  expected  nothing  else,  Uncle  John.  What 
made  her  think  of  trying  to  do  such  a  thing?" 

"Because,  Eva,  it  was  all-important  that  it  should  be  done  at 
once ;  I  could  not  do  it  alone,  and  nobody  else  was  near  to  help 
me.  Do  you  know,  my  child,  that  if  there  had  been  no  one  here 
to-day  capable  of  doing  such  a  thing,  the  boy  would  have  lost  so 
much  blood  before  the  surgeon  reached  here  that  he  must  have 
died?" 


CAMERON    HALL.  273 

"Oh,  Uncle  John!"  she  exclaimed,  "surely  you  are  not  in 
earnest!" 

"  Yes,  Eva,  I  am  in  earnest.  This  is  a  very  important  matter. 
An  unguarded  motion,  or  undue  excitement,  might  bring  tins 
thing  on  again;  and  suppose  that  it  should  happen  in  the  night, 
when  it  might  require  two  or  three  hours  to  get  the  doctor,  is 
there  no  use  in  your  sister,  or  yourself  even,  knowing  how  and 
what  to  do?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  replied,  seriously;  "but  I  don't  believe  that  I 
could  do  it,  even  if  his  life  depended  upon  it." 

"  So  did  not  your  sister  say.  The  moment  that  I  used  this 
argument,  she  lost  sight  of  everything  except  the  necessity  of 
exertion.  She  forgot  herself  altogether  as  long  as  she  could  be 
useful,  and  it  was  only  when  the  strain  was  removed  that  she 
found  out  how  severe  it  had  been." 

"  Well,  well,"  exclaimed  Eva,  "  sister  is  at  last  a  heroine ! 
Practical,  matter-of-fact  as  she  is,  she  has  made  herself  a  heroine 
to-day !  Now  I  can  write  to  Dr.  Charles,  as  I  promised  to  do  ! 
I  would  have  done  so  long  ago,  if  I  could  have  found  anything 
in  this  quiet  life  of  ours  to  make  a  letter  spicy.  But  now  I  have, 
indeed,  rich  materials.  My  heroic  sister,  with  blanched  cheek, 
but  unfaltering  purpose,  dressing  a  soldier's  wound,  and  saving 
his  life,  and  then,  when  it  was  all  over,  swooning  away  in  Uncle 
John's  arms  !  I  declare,  it  would  be  perfectly  splendid,  wouldn't  it, 
Uncle  John  ?  and  then,  besides,  it  would  fill  up  a  whole  page  !" 

The  merry  child  laughed  heartily,  and  her  sister  and  Uncle 
John  could  not  help  joining  her  ;  and  the  latter  said  : 

"  I  declare,  Eva,  you  are  absolutely  incorrigible  !" 

"If  you  were  in  earnest,  Eva,"  said  Julia,  "I  might  have 
something  to  say  upon  the  subject;  but,  as  it  is,  you  are  quite 
welcome  to  your  amusement." 

"  Earnest,  sister !  You  will  see  presently  if  I  am  not  in 
earnest.     I  positively  intend  to  write  to  Dr.  Beaufort  to-day." 

"  That  may  be ;  but  you  don't  intend  to  mention  me,  and  least 
of  all  to  mention  what  has  occurred  this  morning." 

"  You  will  see,"  replied  the  provoking  Eva.  "  Why,  Uncle 
John,  what  do  you  suppose  Dr.  Beaufort  would  care  for  a  letter 
from  the  Hall  that  contained  nothing  about  sister?  Don't  vou 
believe  that  he  would  think  it  '  Hamlet  without  the  character  of 
the  Prince  of  Denmark'?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  would  think  of  the  letter,"  he  replied, 
laughing,  "  but  I  do  know  that  if  he  could  see  how  you  tease 
your  sister,  and  how  patiently  she  bears  it,  he  would  think  that 
you  were  the  most  intolerable  child,  and  that  she  was  the  meekest 
woman,  in  the  world." 


274  CAMERON     HALL. 

"  She  is  only  amusing  herself  now,  Uncle  John,"  said  Julia. 
"She  likes  to  tease  me;  but  I  must  do  her  the  justice  to  say, 
that  she  never  persists  in  doing  anything  when  she  finds  out  that 
I  specially  disapprove  it;  and  now,  although  you  hear  her  talking 
so,  she  will  not  say  one  word  about  me  in  her  letter." 

"You  are  not  in  earnest,  sister?"  said  Eva. 

"  Just  as  much  so,  Eva,  as  you  are  in  your  intention  to  write." 

"  But  why  not,  sister  ?  Of  course  I  don't  intend  to  make  you 
appear  ridiculous,  with  your  '  blanched  cheek,'  etc.,  as  I  threatened 
to  do  just  now ;  but,  seriously,  I  don't  see  any  impropriety  in 
mentioning  the  circumstance.     Do  you,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"Yes,  if  your  sister  does  not  wish  it." 

"You  call  me  provoking,  Uncle  John,  but  indeed  I  think  that 
she  is  the  provoking  one  now.  To  condemn  anybody  to  write  a 
letter  with  nothing  in  it  is  unreasonable  enough ;  but  to  demand 
the  letter,  and  refuse  the  materials,  is  very  much  like  Pharaoh  re- 
quiring the  bricks,  but  refusing  the  straw.  How  upon  earth, 
Uncle  John,  can  I  write  a  letter  if  I  am  not  to  tell  anything 
in  it  ?" 

"  That  is  your  own  look-out,  my  daughter.  Nobody  demands 
the  letter  of  you.  You  volunteered  to  write  it,  and  are  yourself 
the  best  judge  whether  you  are  capable  of  doing  it.  But,  indeed, 
I  must  go,  girls.  I  did  not  intend  to  stay  half  an  hour  when  I 
came,  and  I  have  spent  the  whole  morning.  I  will  step  into 
Willie's  room  and  see  how  he  is  doing,  and  then  I  must  hasten 
home." 

He  returned  immediately,  saying  that  he  was  asleep,  and  he 
charged  the  girls  to  keep  him  perfectly  quiet  all  day. 

"I  am  afraid,  Uncle  John,"  said  Julia,  "that  excitement 
brought  this  on;"  and  she  told  him  the  circumstance. 

"That  is  it,  without  a  doubt  I"  said  Uncle  John.  Foolish 
young  boy,  to  get  so  excited  over  a  newspaper  paragraph  I  And 
yet  I  do  not  wonder,  either;  I  would  have  done  so  too  at  his  age. 
But,  Julia,  this  must  not  happen  again ;  and  as  to  you.  Miss 
Eva,  I  positively  prohibit  another  newspaper  in  that  room  until 
I  give  permission.     Do  you  understand  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  and  I  shall  be  very  careful  to  obey,  since  I  have 
seen  the  consequences  of  the  first  one  that  I  have  taken  in.  I  can 
safely  promise  that  the  next  newspaper  he  gets  will  not  be  from 
my  hands." 

"  How  are  Grace  and  Agnes,  Uncle  John  ?"  asked  Julia,  "  as 
she  accompanied  him  to  the  door.  "  I  have  been  so  occupied 
with  Willie,  lately,  that  I  have  seen  very  little  of  them." 

"Agoes  is  well,  Julia;  but  as  to  her  mother,  it  is  very  evident 
that  there  is  something  unusual  preying  upon  her  spirits.     I  can 


CAMERON    HALL.  .  27 


D 


always  tell,  my  daughter,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  kindly  and 
significantly,  "  when  my  friends  are  in  trouble,  although  my  pene- 
tration may  not  extend  so  far  as  to  discover  what  the  trouble  is." 

Julia  colored,  but  did  not  reply.  She  stood  in  the  door  and 
watched  him  as  he  rode  away,  and  thought: 

"Under  other  circumstances,  there  is  no  one  to  whom  I  would 
so  willingly  confide  my  trouble  as  to  you,  my  dear  old  Uncle 
John;  but  now  it  cannot  be." 

She  turned  away,  and  went  up  stairs,  and  taking  a  chair  in 
the  passage  by  Willie's  door,  she  sat  quietly  waiting  for  him  to 
awake.  An  open  book  was  in  her  hand,  but  her  thoughts  were 
far  away,  and  wandered  between  her  own  restless,  troubled  spirit, 
and  a  battle-field  not  far  off,  with  a  true,  manly  heart,  whose 
affection  it  might  have  been  her  privilege  to  possess. 

Uncle  John  rode  along  in  deep  thought,  wondering  how  his 
usual  sagacity  could  be  so  much  at  fault;  how  he  could  be  so 
thoroughly  convinced  that  Grace  and  Julia  were  both  in  unusual 
trouble,  and  yet  so  unable  to  discover  what  it  was. 

When  he  called  at  the  cottage,  Grace  was  on  the  porch,  train- 
ing the  viue-branches  around  the  pillars,  and  Agnes  was  playing 
a  wailing,  minor  strain,  which  her  mother  said  she  called  the 
"Dirge  of  Manassas."  Her  thoughts  had  all  flowed  in  that 
channel  since  the  battle.  Her  mother  regretted  it,  and  had  tried 
to  divert  them,  and  often  asked  for  more  cheerful  music,  but 
the  answer  always  was: 

"  I  play  just  as  I  feel,  mother.  I  am  so  sorry  for  the  poor 
wounded  soldiers,  and  for  so  many  widows  and  orphans  that 
Uncle  John  says  are  all  over  the  land." 

"Grace,"  said  Uncle  John,  "this  is  all  wrong,  and  must  be 
stopped.  Agues  must  not  be  allowed  to  go  on  in  that  way. 
She  is  but  a  child,  and  anything  so  unnatural  as  childish  de- 
pression ought  to  be  checked." 

^  "  Not  much  of  a  child  !"  the  mother  answered,  sadly ;  "  I  wish 
that  she  were  !  Ah,  Uncle  John  I  Agnes  gives  me  much  trou- 
ble and  anxiety,  far  more  than  you  or  any  other  human  beino-  can 
imagine."  ° 

"How  so,  Grace?"  he  asked,  eagerly,  thinking  that  now  at 
last  he  had  discovered  the  clew  to  her  great  depression  lately. 

"Because,  Uncle  John,  she  is  prematurely,  unnaturally  de- 
veloped, and  I  am  afraid  that,  as  a  consequence,  she  will  prema- 
turely decay." 

"  Now,  Grace,  you  are  altogether  mistaken  there.  Agnes  is 
as  much  a  child  as  any  other  that  ever  lived,  and  whatever  ma- 
turity there  is  about  her  may  be  readily  accounted  for  by  the 
peculiarity  of  her  circumstances.     She  has  never  had  access  to 


27(3  CAMERON     HALL. 

the  sports  of  childhood ;  she  has  never  had  companions  of  her 
own  age,  but  has  been  all  her  life  accustomed  to  the  conversation 
of  elder  people,  so  that  she  has  adopted  their  modes  of  thought 
as  well  as  their  very  language.  I  admit  that  in  conversation 
Agnes  rarely  seems  a  child,  but  that  is  our  fault.  Did  you  ever 
hear  anybody  talk  to  her  as  they  would  to  another  child  of  her 
age  ?  I  am  sure  that  you  never  do.  I  have  often  remarked  and 
deplored  it." 

"No,  sir,  for  I  do  not  often  think  of  her  as  a  child;  and  some- 
times, when  I  suddenly  remember  how  old  she  is,  I  am  really 
startled.  Perhaps  it  is  her  musical  genius  that  makes  her  seem 
mature." 

"And  yet  that  is  a  gift  utterly  separate  from  and  independent 
of  both  her  mental  and  physical  organization.  It  is  true  that 
the  latter  may  in  the  end  be  painfully  affected  by  it,  from  the 
fact  that  she  confines  herself  so  closely  to  the  organ ;  but  she 
is  not  necessarily  any  the  less  a  child  in  feeling  or  intellect,  be- 
cause she  is  a  musical  one.  No,  Grace,  all  these  are  idle  fears, 
and  for  Agnes's  sake,  as  well  as  your  own,  you  ought  not  to  in- 
dulge them.  She,  it  is  true,  cannot,  like  myself,  see  the  anxious 
shade  upon  your  face,  nor  the  troubled  look  in  your  eye,  that  I 
have  seen  since  I  came  home,  more  than  ever  before ;  but  you 
yourself  know  how  quick  she  is  to  detect  the  least  sadness  in 
your  tone,  and  how  readily  her  feelings  are  affected  by  yours. 
And  especially  now,  when  she  has  caught  the  contagion  of  the 
universal  sadness  and  depression  all  over  the  laud,  ought  we  to 
try  always  to  be  cheerful  when  she  is  with  us." 

"  I  will  try,  Uncle  John,"  the  mother  answered;  "but,  indeed, 
I  cannot  help  holding  the  treasure  of  my  little  blind  child  in  a 
trembling  grasp.  It  may  be  foolish,  it  may  be  wrong;  but, 
Uncle  John,  no  human  being  knows  how  afraid  I  am  of  losing 
her!" 

"And  so  you  might  well  be,  if  there  were  any  cause  of  appre-. 
hension ;  but  there  is  none,  except  that  maturity  of  thought  and 
feeling  in  the  child,  which,  after  all,  exists  rather  in  your  fancy 
than  in  reality.  Now,  Grace,  I  am  not  Mr.  Derby,  but  I  think 
that  I  can  give  you  a  little  advice  in  this  matter  which  he  will 
approve.  Enjoy  the  child  while  you  have  her,  and  thank  God  for 
the  blessing,  and  don't  poison  the  pleasure  of  present  possession 
by  the  fear  of  losing  her.  That  is  not  only  your  privilege  but 
your  Christian  duty." 

"You  are  right,  Uncle  John,  I  feel  and  acknowledge  it;  and 
perhaps  if  my  life  had  been  otherwise,  I  would  have  been  better 
able  to  control  my  foolish  fears  and  anxieties."  She  paused  a 
moment,  and  added,  resignedly :  "  But  to  lose  what  I  valued  has 


CAMERON    HALL.  277 

ever  been  my  lot,  and  it  seems  almost  presumptuous  to  hope  to 
keep  her." 

"  It  is  not  presumptuous,  it  is  simply  what  you  are  bound  to  do. 
You  ought  both  to  hope  for  and  to  expect  it,  until  you  find  it 
ordered  otherwise." 

"Well,  Uncle  John,  if  my  apprehensions  are  groundless,  they 
are  at  least  natural,  under  any  circumstances,  but  especially  so  in 
mine.  Xobody  can  conceive  how  desolate  my  life  would  be  with- 
out that  child  I" 

"Yes,  Grace,"  he  said  gently,  "I  can.  All  my  life  has  been 
just  as  lonely,  just  as  desolate,  as  yours  would  be  without 
Agnes." 

She  felt  that  they  were  approaching  delicate  ground,  and  so, 
hastening  into  the  parlor,  she  summoned  Agnes  to  see  Uncle 
John,  who  greeted  her  more  cheerfully  than  usual,  and  avoided 
all  allusion  to  sad  or  painful  subjects.  He  said  nothing  of  the 
scene  at  the  Hall  that  morning,  but  talked  pleasantly  about  the 
girls  and  Willie,  and  promised  to  take  her  with  him  the  next 
time  that  he  went.  He  did  not  ask  her,  as  usual,  to  play  for  him ; 
and  when  he  was  going  away  he  said  that  he  intended  to  write 
that  day  to  Dr.  Charles,  and  that  he  would  not  think  the  letter 
complete  without  a  pleasant  message  from  her. 

"  Tell  him.  Uncle  John,  how  sorry  I  am  for  him,  and  for  all 
the  poor  soldiers  who  have  to  suffer  so  much  themselves,  and  to 
see  others  suffer  too.  Tell  him,  if  he  could  hear  me  play  he 
might  know  how  sorry  I  am,  but  I  cannot  tell  him  in  words." 

"  But,  Agnes,  I  did  not  ask  for  such  a  message  as  that.  I  asked 
for  a  pleasant,  cheerful  one." 

"  That  is  all  that  I  have  to  send.  Uncle  John,"  she  an- 
swered. 

He  went  away,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  breeze  bore  to  his 
ears  the  same  sad  funereal  wail. 

"It  must  be  stopped,  somehow,"  he  said  to  himself.     "The 
,  child  must  not  be  so  saddened." 

As  he  went  along,  he  was  wondering  what  could  be  done  to 
draw  her  thoughts  away  from  such  themes,  but  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do  ;  and  shaking  his  head  with  a  dissatisfied  air,  he  said, 
as  he  entered  his  own  gate  : 

"  Hard,  indeed,  that  this  unnatural  war  should  affect  all  ages, 
classes,  and  conditions  I  That  the  life  even  of  a  blind  child  should 
be  made  darker  and  sadder  by  it  1" 

24 


278  CAMERON    HALL. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Some  months  had  now  passed  away.  The  wounded  at  Hope- 
dale  had,  with  few  exceptions,  recovered  and  returned  to  their 
regiments.  The  enemy  had  been  too  much  amazed  and  de- 
moralized by  the  unexpected  tide  of  affairs  at  Bull  Run,  to  make 
any  further  demonstrations  upon  Richmond,  while  the  Confeder- 
ate army  had  been  too  much  exhausted  by  its  hard-won  victory, 
to  follow  the  retreating  foe  to  the  gates  of  Washington.  By  de- 
grees the  Federal  army  had  been  reorganized,  and  the  two  had 
now  stood  for  some  time  confronting  each  other  on  the  Potomac, 
each  waitii^  for  the  attack  that  neither  was  willing  to  venture. 
The  Army  of  the  Potomac  seemed  to  be  the  converging  point  for 
the  greater  portion  of  the  Confederate  troops,  which,  owing  to 
the  vast  inferiority  of  numbers,  which  was  their  special  disad- 
vantage, had  to  be  massed  at  a  few  of  the  most  important  p'jints, 
thus  leaving  many  of  the  fairest  portions  of  the  country  open  to 
invasion  and  occupation  by  the  foe.  Such  was  the  condition  of 
Hopedale  and  the  surrounding  country,  whose  rich  and  abundant 
harvests,  now  gathered  and  secured  by  the  inhabitants,  offered  a 
tempting  bait  to  the  enemy.  When  it  first  began  to  be  whis- 
pered that  this  beautiful  and  fertile  valley  was  to  be  left  outside 
the  Confederate  lines,  the  thought  was  too  unwelcome  to  be  en- 
tertained. Some  thought  tliat  the  railroad  was  too  important  to 
the  government  to  be  thus  abandoned ;  and  others  could  not  believe 
that  miles  of  country  teeming  with  provisions  would  be  sacri- 
ficed ;  and  a  few  there  were,  to  whose  narrow,  contracted  vision 
the  fate  of  the  nation  was  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  their 
own  selfish  interests,  and  who  declaimed  loudly  and  bitterly 
against  a  policy  which  did  not  protect  their  homesteads  and  • 
farms.  But,  in  spite  of  murmurs  and  complaints,  the  wheels  of 
government  moved  on  their  resistless  round ;  and  since  all  could 
not  be  protected,  and  all  could  not  be  saved,  it  sacrificed  the  few 
ior  the  good  of  the  many.  Mr.  Cameron,  Mr.  Derby,  and  Uncle 
John,  like  all  the  rest,  had  thought  and  talked  much  of  the  mat- 
ter, but  not  in  the  spirit  of  fault-finding  and  complaint.  They 
deprecated  the  result  as  much  as  any  other  men  in  the  commu- 
nity, but  they  looked  at  it  from  a  stand- point  elevated  above 
their  own  interests  and  wishes,  and  their  justice  and  clear  judg- 
ment at  once  grasped  the  true  cause,  insiead  of  charging  the 
government  with  incompetence  or  negligence. 


CAMERON    HALL.  279 

"  It  is  not  the  time,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Derby  one  day,  to  a 
group  in  the  street,  who  were  discussing  the  lamentable  result, 
which  some  attributed  to  one  cause  and  some  to  another,  while 
all  agreed  that  "  somebody  was  to  blame," — "  it  is  not  the  time 
for  fault-finding,  carping,  and  distrust.  It  is  not  patriotic,  it  is 
not  manly,  while  the  nation  is  struggling  in  the  agonies  of  its 
birth,  to  fix  our  eyes  on  individual  interests  and  on  single  mea- 
sures. Let  us  for  once,  if  it  is  possible,  forget  ourselves,  and 
with  might  and  main  uphold,  sustain,  and  strengthen  the  heaving 
country;  and  when  its  convulsions  are  over,  and  our  freedom  es- 
tablished, then  we  can  use  the  privilege  which  belongs  to  us  as 
freemen  ;  and  if  we  are  dissatisfied  with  our  rulers,  we  can  re- 
place them,  by  the  power  of  the  ballot-box,  with  others  more 
competent  or  more  reliable." 

Willie  was  still  at  the  Hall.  His  wound,  which  was  pro- 
nounced at  first  very  serious,  had  proved  even  more  so  than  was 
expected,  and  several  times  his  recovery  had  seemed  extremely 
doubtful.  But  his  youth  and  strength  of  constitution,  aided  by 
surgical  skill  and  careful  nursing,  had  at  last  triumphed ;  and 
though  pale  and  still  very  weak  from  long  confinement  and  loss 
of  blood,  he  was  nevertheless  recovering.  He  was  now  allowed 
to  walk  about  the  house ;  but  all  his  movements  had  still  to  be 
gentle  and  cautious,  and  his  repeated  requests  to  be  permitted  to 
go  home  had  been  thus  far  peremptorily  refused.  Willie  was  not 
by  any  means  tired  of  the  Hall.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  now 
so  completely  domesticated  there,  that  he  fully  realized  that  when 
he  should  leave  it  he  would  be  turning  his  back  upon  one  home 
to  seek  another ;  but  yet  he  wanted  to  see  the  faces  of  father, 
mother,  and  sisters,  before  he  should  return  to  camp,  which  he 
hoped  from  week  to  week  to  be  able  to  do.  But  recovery  was 
very  slow,  and  he  was  beginning  to  be  restless ;  for,  boy-like,  he 
had  felt  every  day,  since  he  had  left  his  bed,  that  his  present  life 
of  inaction  was  not  becoming  a  soldier.  That  newspaper  para- 
graph, while  all  else  in  the  world  save  himself  and  the  loving 
hearts  at  home  had  forgotten  it,  still  stirred  his  blood  and  fired 
his  young  ambition ;  and  he  wanted  to  be  in  the  camp  and  on 
the  field  again,  where  he  could  make  a  name  for  himself.  He 
could  not  help  enjoying  his  present  circumstances,  surrounded  as 
he  was  by  all  the  appliances  of  wealth  and  luxury,  and  he  felt 
that  the  society  of  the  sisters,  especially  that  of  the  younger, 
was  becoming  daily  more  agreeable  to  him ;  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
he  reproached  and  condemned  himself  for  being  so  well  contented, 
and  greatly  feared  lest  the  life  of  ease  and  comfort,  now  rendered 
necessary  by  his  condition,  should  unfit  him  for  future  hardships 
and  privation. 


280  CAMERON    HALL. 

If  Willie  had  himself  learned  to  feel  completely  at  home  at  the 
Hall,  he  was  no  less  regarded  by  the  family  as  one  of  themselves. 
Mr.  Cameron  had  become  greatly  interested  in  the  boy.  There 
was  in  his  character  an  innate  gentleness  and  refinement,  allied 
to  a  spirit  of  determination  and  bravery,  which  won  both  his 
affection  and  admiration ;  while  the  pale  face,  the  languid  step, 
and  the  fear  lest  he  might  be  an  invalid  and  a  cripple  for  life, 
awakened  a  feeling  of  sympathy  and  pity.  Julia  had  become 
warmly  attached  to  the  youth  who  had  been  for  months  the  ob- 
ject of  her  care  and  solicitude,  and  who  had  proved  so  docile  and 
grateful  a  patient;  while  Eva,  satisfied  with  the  present,  and  not 
troubling  herself  about  the  future,  had  floated  calmly  along  the 
pleasant  tide  of  her  daily  life,  enjoying  his  society,  until  gradually 
and  unconsciously  she  had  found  Willie's  room  pleasanter  than 
the  yard  or  the  garden,  a  quiet  conversation  with  him  more 
agreeable  than  a  ride  on  Dixie  or  a  romp  with  Carlo,  and  read- 
ing aloud  to  him  an  employment  preferable  to  a  fishing  excursion 
or  a  stroll  in  the  grove.  Julia  no  longer  had  to  complain  of 
torn  dresses  and  tangled  curls;  Carlo  now  had  nobody  to  romp 
with  him,  and  both  his  mistress  and  himself  had  sobered  down  so 
completely,  that  Willie  protested  to  her  one  day  that  he  believed 
she  had  slandered  both  herself  and  her  dog,  for  he  had  never  in 
his  life  seen  a  more  demure,  well-behaved  couple. 

"I  don't  know  why  it  is,  Willie,  "she  answered,  "but  it  is 
true,  that  I  have  not  romped  so  much  of  late  as  I  used  to  do ; 
but  you  must  remember  that  I  am  getting  to  be  a  young  lady 
now." 

"  I  am  glad,  Eva,"  said  Julia,  "that  you  are  at  last  beginning 
to  realize  that.  You  know  that  I  have  told  you  so  for  a  long 
time,  but  the  fact  has  never  as  yet  made  much  impression." 

"  I  suppose,  sister,  that  it  is  either  the  good  or  bad  effect  of 
example.  You  and  Willie  are  so  quiet  and  sober,  that  I  am 
afraid  you  will  make  me  like  yourselves  before  long.  Walter 
will  not  know  me  when  he  comes  back." 

"I  am  quiet  and  sober  perforce,  now,  "said  Willie;  "but  if  I 
could  only  walk  and  leap  and  climb  as  I  could  six  months  ago, 
you  would  find  me  not  far  behind  your  brother  in  noise  and 
frolic.  Nobody  loves  active  exercise  more  than  I  do,  and  to  sit 
still  now  that  I  am  getting  well  is  quite  as  hard  for  me  as  it  was 
to  bear  the  pain.  Heigh-ho  !  I  wonder  if  I  will  ever  again  be 
as  strong  and  active  as  I  once  was  !" 

"Come,  Willie,"  said  Julia,  "you  must  not  grow  desponding 
or  impatient  now." 

"Desponding!  Impatient  I  Indeed,  Miss  Julia,  I  think  that 
I  have  been  a  model  of  hope  and  patience." 


CAMERON    HALL.  281 

"That  is  the  very  reason  why  I  would  not  have  you  fail  just 
at  the  last.  Be  patient  and  prudent  and  obedient  still,  and  you 
will  come  out  all  right  in  the  end.  Let  me  see  how  obedient  you 
will  be  now,  when  I  tell  you  that  you  have  been  sitting  up  long 
enough,  and  must  lie  down  on  the  sofa  for  an  hour  and  a  half." 

"I  am  very  tired  of  the  bed  and  sofa;  they  are  altogether  too 
luxurious  for  the  soldier." 

"Come,  Willie,"  said  Eva,  "we  are  to  have  no  objections.  See 
how  comfortably  I  have  arranged  your  pillows.  It  is  not  every 
soldier  that  has  a  young  lady  to  do  that  for  him  I" 

"  That  is  true,"  he  answered ;  "nor  woul(J  any  other  soldier  be 
ungrateful  enough  to  complain  of  any  requirement  from  such 
nurses  as  I  have.  But  see,  now,"  he  added,  going  to  the  sofa, 
"I  will  obey  without  a  murmur,  and  will  promise  to  lie  here  for 
an  hour  and  a  half — for  two  hours,  if  your  sister  wills  it." 

"  That  is  a  good,  obedient  patient  1"  said  Eva.  "And  now  is 
there  anything  that  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "  if  you  have  the  time  and  inclination." 

"  Of  the  first,"  she  replied,  laughing,  "  there  is  never  any  want, 
I  always  have  plenty  of  that;  but  of  the  last,  I  am  not  quite  so 
sure.     Let  me  hear,  however,  what  it  is  you  want." 

"I  want  you  to  read  to  me,  talk  to  me,  or  otherwise  entertain 
me  while  I  am  condemned  to  lie  here." 

"  Oh  !    if  that  is  all,  my  inclination  will  allow  me  to  gratify 

you.     What  must  I .     But  see  1    there  is  papa  coming  in  at 

the  gate.     I  will  run  and  ask  him  if  there  is  any  war  news,  and 
will  be  back  in  one  minute,  Willie." 

She  met  her  father  half  way  down  the  lawn ;  and  when  Julia 
reached  the  hall  door,  she  saw  them  talking  very  earnestly  to- 
gether, as  Mr.  Cameron  rode  along  in  a  walk,  with  Eva  by  his 
side.  As  they  approached,  Julia  saw  that  there  was  something 
very  serious  the  matter ;  and  as  soon  as  she  was  near  enough, 
Eva  called  out,  in  a  voice  half  terrified  and  half  tearful : 

"  Oh,  sister  !  we  are  left  out  of  the  Confederate  lines,  and  ex- 
posed at  any  moment  to  a  raid  or  occupation  by  the  enemy. 
Indeed,  some  say  that  the  Yankees  are  coming  now !" 

Julia  was  for  a  moment  startled.  She  had  heard  the  possibility 
or  such  a  thing  discussed  by  her  father  and  Uncle  John,  but  she 
did  not  expect  it  so  soon.  She  looked  at  her  father  in  silence, 
awaiting  his  confirmation  of  what  Eva  had  said. 

"Yes,  my  daughter,"  he  said,  "it  is  even  so.  Hopedale  is  not 
so  important  a  point  as  many  others;  and  as  it  is  impossible  to 
guard  them  all,  we  had  to  be  left  at  the  mercy  of  the  enemy." 

As  usual,  her  thoughts  were  speedily  collected,  and  her  first 
words  were  : 

24* 


282  CAMERON    HALL. 

"And  Willie,  papa ;  he  is  not  safe  here  now,  is  he  ?" 

"  Oh  !"  interrupted  Eva,  "  what  on  earth  would  they  do  to 
him  ?  A  poor  wounded  boy,  that  could  not  ride  a  mile  on  horse- 
back if  his  life  depended  on  it !" 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Julia,  "he  is  a  Confederate  soldier,  Eva; 
and  whether  wounded  or  not,  is  liable  to  be  taken  prisoner." 

"They  would  not  have  the  heart  to  do  so  cruel  a  thing,  papa, 
would  they  ?" 

"They  would  certainly  take  him  prisoner,  Eva;  but  in  his  con- 
dition would  probably  parole  him." 

"And  what  is  that,  papa  ?" 

"  It  is  to  make  him  promise  upon  his  honor  never  to  fight  again 
in  the  Confederate  army  until  he  has  been  exchanged.  If  he  will 
do  that,  they  will,  perhaps,  in  consideration  of  his  wound,  spare 
him  from  the  confinement  of  prison." 

"He  might  be  willing  to  promise  not  to  fight  for  two  or  three 
months,  papa ;  for  he  will  not  be  able  to  do  it  before  that 
time. " 

"But  this  would  not  suffice,"  said  her  father,  smiling.  "He 
must  promise  unconditionally,  and  must  keep  it,  too.  It  is  con- 
sidered very  disgraceful  for  a  soldier  to  violate  his  parole.  I 
don't  believe  that  Willie  would  consent  to  be  captured  on  these 
conditions,  even  if  he  is  obliged  to  run  some  risk  to  get  away." 

"I  believe,  papa,"  answered  Eva,  "that  I  would  stay.  I  can- 
not think  that  the  Yankees  will  even  take  him  prisoner  under  the 
circumstances.  I  don't  believe  that  they  would  be  so  inhuman 
as  to  molest  him  in  any  way,  when  they  see  how  weak  and  sick 
he  is." 

"Trust  not  to  Yankee  humanity,  my  daughter;  for  be  sure  it 
will  fail  you,  especially  in  time  of  war.  You  will  learn,  my  child, 
before  this  war  is  over,  that  '  the  tender  mercies '  of  warfare,  like 
those  of  the  wicked,  are  'cruel.'  No,  Eva,  Willie  must  go.  He 
ought  not,  he  must  not  stay  here  any  longer." 

"  Oh,  papa  1"  she  exclaimed,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  where 
can  he  go  ?  who  will  take  care  of  him  ?  He  is  not  able  to  travel ; 
the  doctor  told  him  only  yesterday  that  it  might  cost  him  his  life 
to  go  home.  Don't  send  him  away,  papa,  please  don't !  Hide 
him  in  the  garret.  I  will  take  his  meals  to  him  myself,  and  not 
a  human  being  shall  know  that  he  is  there." 

"  Poor  child  !  how  little  do  you  know  of  the  usages  of  war  or 
of  human  nature  1  The  Federal  soldiers  would  not  be  half  an 
hour  in  Hopedale  before  some  one  would  inform  them  that  there 
was  a  Confederate  soldier  at  Cameron  Hall,  and  offer  to  guide 
them  to  the  place." 

"But,  papa,  you  can  lock  your  doors  and  refuse  to  let  them  in. 


CAMERON    HALL.  283 

It  is  your  house,  and  nobody  has  a  right  to  enter  it  without  your 
permission." 

"Permission!  Right!  These,  my  daughter,  are  words  that 
have  no  place  in  the  vocabulary  of  war.  A  squad  of  armed  sol- 
diers would  come  here  and  demand  admittance ;  and  if  refused, 
bolts  and  bars  would  not  long  exclude  them,  and  neither  garret, 
cellar,  nor  closet  would  be  a  safe  retreat  from  their  search.  And 
if  Willie  should  be  found  thus  concealed,  they  might  perhaps  deal 
very  harshly  with  him ;  and,  regardless  of  his  wound  and  suffer- 
ing, send  him  off  to  a  Northern  prison.  Rather  than  risk  this, 
would  it  not  be  much  better  to  go  away  at  once,  while  he  can  do 
so  quietly  and  leisurely  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  perhaps  it  would.  But  is  it  certain  that  they  are 
coming  now  ?" 

"By  no  means,  Eva.  There  are  a  thousand  rumors,  none  of 
which  may  be  true ;  and  yet  none  are  impossible.  One  thing, 
however,  is  unmistakably  true,  and  that  is,  that  we  are  exposed, 
and  are  liable  at  any  hour  to  a  raid.  Now,  this  being  the  case, 
and  Willie's  condition  being  such  that  haste  and  excitement  would 
be  highly  injurious  to  him,  my  advice  would  be  to  go  away  now  in 
peace  and  quiet.  It  is  what  I  would  do  myself,  and  what  I  should 
want  Walter  to  do." 

"  Then,  papa,"  she  said,  "  if  he  is  obliged  to  go,  the  sooner  that 
he  is  off  the  better ;  so  I  will  run  and  tell  him." 

"Indeed  you  will  not!"  exclaimed  her  sister,  seizing  her  arm 
and  detaining  her  by  a  firm  grasp.  "  Listen  to  me  one  moment. 
Remember,  Eva,  the  terrible  scene  that  we  had  the  morning  that 
Uncle  John  was  here;  and  as  you  value  Willie's  life,  do  nothing 
to  cause  a  repetition  of  it.  You  must  not  go  near  him  now,  you 
are  entirely  too  much  excited."  * 

"Well,  sister,"  exclaimed  the  bewildered  Eva,  "what  is  to  be 
done  ?  Papa  says  that  he  must  not  stay,  and  you  say  that  he 
must  not  be  told  to  go  !" 

"  Xo,  Eva,  not  that.  I  do  not  say  that  he  must  not  be  told; 
but  only  that  he  must  not  be  told  in  the  way  that  you  propose  to 
do  it.  Papa  is  the  proper  person  to  tell  him,  and  to  advise  him, 
and  he  will  do  it  calmly." 

"Then,  papa,"  said  the  impatient  Eva,  "please  to  go  and  tell 
him  at  once." 

"Where  shall  I  find  him,  Eva,  in  his  room?" 

"No,  sir,  he  is  in  the  library." 

Mr.  Cameron  found  him  lying  on  the  sofa  with  his  eyes  closed  ; 
and  he  thought,  as  he  entered  the  door,  that  Julia  was  right  in 
not  deeming  him  a  fit  subject  for  any  startling  intelligence.  He 
sat  down  by  him,  and  told  him  quietly  but  frankly  what  he  had 
heard. 


284  CAMERON    HALL. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  probable  truth  of  these  rumors, 
Mr.  Cameron  ?" 

"  Indeed,  Willie,  having  no  facts  on  which  to  base  an  opinion, 
I  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  one  at  all.  These  rumors  are  not 
improbable  in  themselves ;  and  yet  I  am  not  disposed  to  credit 
them,  because  I  know  that  nothing  is  easier  than  to  create  a 
panic,  and  that  then  the  wildest  and  most  unfounded  stories  are 
circulated  and  believed." 

"  What  would  you  advise  me  to  do,  sir  ?" 

"Under  the  circumstances,  I  would  advise  you  to  go  away  im- 
mediately. If  you  were  stronger,  and  able  to  get  away  in  a  hurry, 
you  might  wait  until  the  approach  of  the  enemy  was  certain  ;  but 
in  your  condition,  when  so  much  depends  upon  prudence  and 
caution,  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  go  at  your  leisure.  I 
am  sorry  to  give  you  up,  Willie,  especially  sorry  to  send  you  away 
from  the  Hall,  weak  and  suffering;  but  I  advise  you  now  as  I 
would  Walter." 

"  Thank  you,  sir  !"  he  answered.  "I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Cam- 
eron, to  leave  your  hospitable  home,  where  I  have  received  so 
much  kindness.  I  cannot  repay  it,  sir  ;  but  neither  can  I  forget 
it.  I  owe  my  life,"  he  added,  with  moistened  eyes,  "  to  Cameron 
Hall ;  may  I  so  use  it  in  this  war  that  you  and  your  daughters 
may  not  regret  having  saved  it !" 

"  You  must  not  feel  under  obligations  to  us,  my  son,"  answered 
Mr.  Cameron.  "  We  have  only  done  our  duty ;  and  it  was  a 
much  easier  and  lighter  one  than  you  were  called  upon  to  per- 
form at  Manassas  for  us  and  the  rest  of  your  countrymen." 

"When  must  I  go,  Mr.  Cameron  ?" 

"As  soon  as  possible.     To-morrow  morning,  if  you  can."  • 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  might  venture  to  go  home  ?" 

"  I  should  think  not,  Willie  ;  but  you  must  ask  the  surgeon 
about  that.  If  you  would  like  to  see  him,  I  will  send  for  him  at 
once." 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  he  answered. 

Mr.  Cameron  went  out  to  send  the  messenger,  and  as  he  left 
the  room,  Willie  said  : 

"Will  you  ask  Eva,  sir,  if  she  has  forgotten  her  promise? 
Tell  her  that  I  have  kept  mine  about  lying  quietly  on  the  sofa, 
but  she  seems  to  have  forgotten  hers." 

Eva  came,  sober  and  thoughtful  enough  now.  Willie's  going 
away  had  seemed  something  so  far  in  the  future  that  she  had 
never  thought  about  it  at  all ;  and  his  society,  and  the  attention 
that  he  required,  had  in  the  course  of  months  become  so  much  a 
part  of  her  daily  life  and  thought,  that  she  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  the  painful  void  that  his  departure  would  create.    It  had  come 


CAMERON    HALL.  285 

upon  her,  too,  most  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  and,  altogether 
unaccustomed  to  control  or  hide  her  feelings,  her  gorrownow  was 
very  evident.    Nor  did  she  at  all  object  to  his  seeing  her  distress. 
She  had  never  thought  of  looking  into  her  heart,  and  did  not 
suspect  that  her  feelings  toward  Willie  were  not  altogether  what 
they  were  toward  Walter.     She  had  never  been  called  upon  to 
nurse  Walter  in  sickness  or  suffering ;  and  if  she  felt  a  tenderness 
and  sympathy  for  her  guest   that   she  had   never  felt  for  her 
brother,  she  thought,  if  she  took  time  to  think  about  it  at  all, 
that  it  was  the  natural  result  of  his  condition  and  circumstances. 
Impulsive  and  childlike  in  her  grief,  as  she  was  in  her  mirth,  she 
had  already  indulged  in  a  hearty  cry  while  her  father  had  been 
talking  to  Willie,  and  her  eyes  were  red  and  her  cheeks  stained 
with  tears,  when  she  slowly  obeyed  Willie's  summons  to  the  li- 
brary.    Nor  was  he  much  stronger  proof  against  the  pain  of 
separation.     Like  Eva,  he,  too,  had  never  thought  of  examining 
his  feelings  with  regard  to  her.     He  only  knew  that  he  was  not 
only  contented,  but  happy,  when  she  was  sitting  by,  talking  to 
him,  reading  to  him,  or  arranging  his  flower-vases.   *^The  sight  of 
her,  the  thought  of  her  had  become  with  him  a  daily  necessity; 
and  while  he  was  aware  of  this,  still  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  that  his  feeling  for  her  differed  in  kind  and  degree  from  that 
affectionate  gratitude  that  he  felt  toward  her  father  and  sister. 
He  differed,  however,  from  Eva  in  one  respect.     The  sudden  and 
unexpected  necessity  of  separation,  while  it  distressed  her,  did  not 
enlighten  her  with  regard  to  her  feelings ;  but  as  to  Willie,  the 
truth  flashed  upon  him  in  a  moment,  and  he  knew  at  once  that 
the  keen   pang  occasioned  by  the  thought  of  leaving  Eva,  was 
something  altogether  different  from   the  deep    but  more  sober 
regret  with  which  he  would  bid  farewell  to  the  other  members  of 
the  family.     Mr.  Cameron   had  scarcely  left   the   room   before 
Willie  regretted  that  he  had  sent  for  Eva.     He  would  rather 
have  had  time  to  reflect  a  little  while,  and  to  decide  if,  at  this 
time  and  under  these  circumstances,  it  would  be  right  to  say  all 
that  he  wanted  to  tell  her.     And  now,  when  she  came  in  looking 
so  troubled,  so  different  from  the  bright  laughing  child  that  he 
had  always  seen  her  before,  he  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
resist  the  temptation  of  laying  his  whole  heart  open  to  her.    But 
he  found  no  time  to  do  it.     Her  imagined  self-control  all  gave 
way  the  very  moment  that  she  looked  at  him  ;  and  seating  herself 
beside  his  sofa,  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  cried  like  a 
very  child.     Willie  looked  at  her  sorrowfully,  but  dared  not  trust 
himself  to  speak,  and  after  a  few  minutes  she  wiped  away  the 
tears,  and,  brushing  back  her  hair,  apologized  to  him,  not  for  the 
distress  or  the  tears,  these  seemed  to  her  natural  enough,  but  for 
having  indulged  them  at  that  particular  time. 


286  CAMERON    HALL. 

"I  must  go  now,  Willie,"  she  said,  rising  from  her  seat,  "  for  I 
find  that  I  cannot  talk  to  you  now.  I  thought  I  could  when 
I  came  in.  Sister  would  be  worried  if  she  were  to  see  this,  for 
she  says  that  you  must  be  quiet.     I  will  come  back  after  awhile." 

Willie  held  her  hand  for  an  instant,  and  looked  at  her,  but  did 
not  speak,  and  then  she  left  the  room. 

An  hour  afterwards,  as  Julia  passed  Eva's  door,  she  heard  a 
sob,  and  looking  into  the  room,  saw  her  sister  sitting  upon  the 
floor  in  the  perfect  abandonment  of  grief.  Julia  stood  and 
looked  at  her  with  sympathy  and  pity,  and  it  may  be  almost  with 
a  feeling  of  envy,  too,  as  she  thought: 

"  Fortunate  child,  who  can  thus  relieve  your  burdened  heart  I 
Unconscious  that  there  is  aught  in  your  feelings  which  it  were 
better  to  conceal,  you  pour  out  your  grief  without  restraint ; 
while  I  must  add  to  the  burden  of  an  aching  heart  the  perpetual 
struggle  of  concealment !  You  are  greatly  distressed,  none  can 
doubt  it,  but,  oh  !  how  much  less  so  than  I  am  !" 

She  went  up  to  Eva  and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  head.  Eva 
looked  up,  and  her  tears  burst  out  afresh.  Julia  waited  until 
there  was  another  lull  in  the  storm,  and  then  said,  gently: 

"This  will  not  do,  Eva.  You  are  not  a  child  now,  and  another 
than  your  sister  might  perhaps  consider  this  grief  unmaidenly.  I 
can  understand  it ;  I  can  make  allowance  for  your  temperament, 
w'hich  others  might  not  do." 

"There  is  nothing  to  make  allowance  for,"  she  answered  be- 
tween her  sobs.  "Willie  is  going  away,  wounded  and  sick.  He 
cannot  get  home,  and  he  will  be  thrown  among  strangers,  with 
nobody  to  take  care  of  him.  I  am  distressed,  I  acknowledge  it, 
and  am  not  ashamed  of  it,  and  I  would  not  care  if  the  whole 
world  knew  it." 

"Yes,  Eva,  you  and  I  may  know  that  your  feelings  are  natural, 
but  others  might  not  know  it,  and  might  misconstrue  them." 

"Nobody  misconstrued  my  grief  when  Walter  went  away,  and 
I  am  sure  that  I  did  not  try  to  hide  it." 

"Willie  is  not  Walter,  Eva.  One  is  your  brother,  the  other 
was  a  stranger  to  you  not  many  months  since." 

"He  is  not  a  stranger  now.  I  love  him  dearly  now,  almost,  if 
not  quite  as  well  as  I  do  Walter." 

"  That  may  be,  child,"  said  Julia,  with  a  sad,  quiet  smile.  "It 
may  be  that  you  love  him  better  than  your  brother;  it  must  be 
that  you  love  him  differently." 

"  No  I  don't  I"  exclaimed  Eva,  as  with  flashing  eyes  she  sprang 
up  from  the  floor.  "  Is  that  what  you  mean,  sister,  by  my  sor- 
row being  misinterpreted  ?  If  I  thought  that — if  I  thought  that 
any  one  could  suspect  me  of  being  in  love  with  Willie,  could 


CAMERON    HALL.  287 

imagine  that  I  would  bestow  my  affections  unasked,  my  very  eye- 
balls should  be  scorched  by  the  hot  tears  that  I  would  force  back, 
for  I  would  not  shed  one  to  relieve  my  heart  if  it  were  breaking ! 
No,  indeed!  I  can  give  him  unasked  a  sister's  love,  but  nothing 
else  !"  She  paused  an  instant,  and  then  said,  looking  mortified 
and  distressed  :  "  You,  sister,  are  the  last  person  in  the  world 
that  I  would  have  suspected  of  so  misjudging  me." 

"I  have  not  done  it,  my  darling!"  answered  Julia,  earnestly. 
"I  know  and  understand  you  thoroughly;  and  it  is  because  I 
know  that  you  would  shrink  like  a  sensitive  plant  from  such  a 
suspicion,  that  I  now  caution  you  against  the  indulgence  of  feel- 
ings which  might  and  probably  would  be  misconstrued.  You 
are  very  young,  Eva,  younger  even  in  heart  than  you  are  in 
years,  and  you  do  not  know  how  the  world  would  interpret  your 
present  sorrows.  You  have  been  all  your  life  sheltered  in  the 
ark  of  home,  where,  without  fear  of  misconstruction,  you  could 
speak  and  act  freely  ;  but  when  you  go  out  into  the  world  you 
will  not  always  meet  with  father,  sister,  brother,  to  make  allow- 
ance and  to  understand  you  ;  there  you  will  always  have  to  guard 
against  misunderstanding  and  misconception." 

"Sister,"  said  Eva,  looking  earnestly  at  her,  "do  you  suppose 
that  Willie  could  possibly  thus  misconceive  me  ?  He  saw  that  I 
was  distressed,  for  I  never  thought  of  trying  to  hide  it.  If  I 
thought  that  he  could,  I  would  very  speedily  undeceive  him." 

She  looked  as  if  she  were  about  to  rush  at  once  to  the  library 
to  make  good  her  words,  but  her  sister's  grasp  restrained  her,  as 
she  answered : 

"I  do  not  believe  that  he  will,  Eva.  I  think  that  Willie 
understands  your  character  and  disposidon  very  thoroughly.  He 
knows  that  yours  is  an  ardent,  impulsive  temperament,  without 
either  restraint  or  concealment ;  and  then  another  thing,  Eva,  the 
very  thing  which,  with  the  world,  might  have  laid  you  open  to 
misconstruction,  will  be  perhaps  with  him  your  safeguard  from  it. 
He  will  naturally  conclude  that  if  there  were  in  your  feeling  for 
him  anything  of  a  tenderer,  deeper  nature  than  there  is  for  your 
brother,  you  would  surely  not  have  so  frankly  confessed  it." 

"  Well,  if  he  does  not  koow  it  now,  I  will  see  to  it  that  he  finds 
it  out  before  he  leaves  the  Hall." 

"Take  care,  Eva,  lest  in  your  fear  of  being  misjudged  you 
should  overleap  the  mark.  •  Treat  him  naturally  and  kindly,  just 
as  you  have  always  done  ;  otherwise  he  might  believe  that  your 
grief  was  at  the  time  beyond  your  control ;  but  inasmuch  as  it 
was  the  result  of  a  feeling  that  youj^ere  desirous  to  conceal,  you 
had,  by  great  effort,  succeeded  in  mastering  it.  Be  your  own 
natural  self,  and  I  am  satisfied  that  Willie  will  understand  you  as  I 


288  CAMERON    HALL. 

do.  We  must  try  and  be  cheerful  to-day,  and  make  bis  last  re- 
collections of  the  Hall  as  pleasant  as  possible.  Poor  Willie  !  I 
am  sorry  that  he  is  obliged  to  go  away  sick  and  feeble.  I  did 
hope  that  when  he  left  us,  it  would  be  to  rejoin  his  regiment,  the 
same  strong,  robust  soldier  that  he  was  when  he  entered  it. 
Come,  now,  dry  your  tears,  brush  your  hair,  and  go  and  talk  to 
him  cheerfully  and  pleasantly,  as  you  are  accustomed  to  do." 

The  surgeon  came,  and,  as  he  was  going  away,  Mr.  Cameron 
asked  him  what  Willie  was  to  do. 

"  He  must  leave,  of  course,  sir.  I  have  received  orders  to  re- 
move all  the  wounded  immediately,  for  this  place  is  no  longer 
safe  for  our  soldiers." 

"Have  you  given  him  permission  to  go  home  ?" 

"  Home  !  Why,  sir,  he  lives  in  Alabama,  and  such  a  journey 
would  surely  kill  him.  No,  sir  I  I  have  ordered  him  to  stop 
after  one  day's  ride  upon  the  cars.  He  must  not  even  go  as  far 
as  Richmond,  but  must  stop  so  soon  as  he  is  within  Confederate 
lines.  If  he  is  prudent  and  careful,  he  vt^ill  be  able  in  a  few  weeks 
to  go  home,  but  he  must  not  think  of  attempting  it  now." 

"  Your  commands  must  be  very  positive,  doctor,  or  he  will  not 
obey  you.     His  heart  is  fixed  upon  going  home." 

**  I  see  that  it  is,  sir,  and  he  may  possibly  disobey  me ;  but  I 
have  stated  the  case  very  plainly,  and  have  told  him  that  if  he 
goes  home  now,  he  will  do  it  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  I  feel  sorry 
for  the  young  fellow.  He  hates  to  go  away  from  here,  and  he 
wants  to  go  home,  and  it  will  evidently  be  a  great  struggle  to 
stop  between  the  two  places.  You  must  persuade  him,  Mr.  Cam- 
eron, to  follow  my  advice ;  it  would  be  a  pity  for  him  to  lose  his 
life  at  last  through  impatience  and  self-will," 

The  last  dinner  at  the  Hall  was  not  pleasant  to  any  of  the 
party.  Eva  could  not  talk ;  Julia  tried  to  do  so,  but  failed  ;  and 
Mr.  Cameron  and  Willie  kept  up  the  scattering  remarks,  that 
were  meant  for  conversation.  It  was  an  effort  on  Willie's  part, 
and  he  was  glad  when  it  was  over.  The  only  thing  that  EVa 
listened  to  at  all  was  her  father's  question  and  Willie's  reply. 

"  Of  course  you  will  not  try  to  go  home,  after  what  the  doctor 
has  told  you  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir.  That  depends  upon  my  condition  and 
strength  after  the  first  day's  travel.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  must 
be  a  better  judge  than  any  one  else  can  be,  how  much  fatigue 
and  jolting  I  can  bear." 

"  Indeed,  my  son,  you  are  not.  The  doctor  says  that  it  is 
possible  that  you  may  be  Me  to  go  in  a  few  weeks,  but  not 
before." 

"A  few  weeks,  Mr.  Cameron  I     Why  by  that  time  I  expect  to 


CAMERON    HALL.  289 

be  with  the  army  of  the  Potomac.  You  have  no  idea  how  rapidly 
I  am  getting  well  now,  thanks  to  the  care  of  the  Hall." 

"  I  trust  that  you  may  soon  be  able  to  rejoin  your  regiment, 
"Willie ;  but  you  certainly  will  not  be,  if  you  take  the  case  into 
your  own  hands,  I  should  be  sorry  for  you  to  go  away  from  the 
Hall  now,  only  to  throw  away  all  the  advantages  that  you  confess 
yourself  to  have  gained  here." 

"I  shall  be  very  careful  not  to  do  that,  sir;  for  I  assure  you 
that  I  am  tired  enough  of  being  on  the  invalid  list,  and  anxious 
enough  to  get  into  service  again." 

The  sisters  seemed  now  to  have  exchanged  places.  Eva  was 
quiet  and  sad,  while  Julia  tried  to  take  her  place  and  cheer  and 
entertain  Willie. 

"Come,  my  patient,"  she  said,  as  they  left  the  table,  "you 
must  surrender  yourself  prisoner  to  me  this  afternoon,  and  obey 
orders  for  the  last  time.  I  am  afraid,  Willie,  that  the  pain  of 
leaving  the  Hall  will  be  quite  counterbalanced  by  the  relief  of  es- 
cape from  my  persecuting  and  endless  restrictions  and  watching." 

"Very  pleasant  restrictions  and  watching  they  have  been,  Miss 
Julia,  and  I  doubt  not  as  beneficial  as  they  were  pleasant.  If  all 
captivity  were  as  agreeable  as  that  of  Cameron  Hall,  there  would 
be  no  great  objection  to  being  taken  prisoner.  Heigh-ho !  To- 
morrow I  shall  have  the  old,  lonely,  hospital  feeling  again,  and 
would  be  glad  enough  for  the  privilege  of  obeying  one  of  Miss 
Julia's  commands!" 

"  Since  you  deem  it  a  privilege,  Willie,  I  shall  feel  less  reluct- 
ance in  enforcing  my  present  orders.  I  condemn  you  now  to 
the  sofa,  not  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  as  usual,  but  for  the  whole 
afternoon.  You  will  need  all  your  strength  to-morrow.  Eva 
shall  entertain  you,  as  she  promised  to  do  this  morning,  and  I 
will  pack  your  valise." 

"  I  obey  instantly,  and  without  a  murmur,"  he  replied,  as  he 
walked  slowly  toward  the  library. 

Julia  caught  Eva's  arm,  and  whispered  : 

"  Rouse  up,  Eva,  and  be  yourself  again !  It  is  unnatural  to 
see  you  so  quiet." 

,  "I  will  try,  sister,"  she  answered;  "but  I  do  not  feel  cheerful 
and  happy,  and  it  is  unnatural  for  me  to  seem  otherwise  than 
I  feel.  Walter  had  been  gone  many  weary  days  before  I  was 
myself  again." 

The  effort  at  conversation  was  wholly  unsuccessful.     Either 
"Willie  did  not  want  to  talk  at  all,  or  else  the  subjects  which  Eva  ' 
chose  did  not  accord  with  his  feelings.     She  thought  that  per- 
haps he  was  tired,  and  would  like  for  her  to  read  to  him  until  he 

25 


290  CAMERON    HALL. 

fell  asleep,  as  she  freqaently  did,  and  so  she  proposed  to  get  a 
book. 

"  Not  now,  Eva;  I  would  rather  talk  to  you,  if  you  will  listen 
to  me.  I  like  human  friends  better  than  books.  We  are  friends, 
are  we  not,  Eva?" 

"  Yes,  Willie,  friends,  warm  friends,  and  I  trust  will  always 
be  so." 

"But  what  if  that  does  not  satisfy  me,  Eva?  What  if  I  should 
ask  you  to  be  something  more  than  a  friend?" 

"  It  would  not  require  much  effort,  Willie,  to  grant  even  that 
request.  Already  you  seem  much  more  like  brother  than  friend. 
Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  really  had  Walter  back  again." 

"Oh  no,  Eva!"  he  exclaimed,  hastily;  then  checking  himself, 
he  closed  his  eyes  and  compressed  his  lips  tightly  for  a  minute. 
Then  he  said : 

"  If  you  will  allow  me  the  invalid's  privilege  of  being  whim- 
sical, Eva,  I  believe  that  I  would  like  for  you  to  read  to  me 
now." 

"  Certainly;  but  what  has  changed  your  mind  so  soon,  Willie? 
It  is  something  new  for  you  to  be  whimsical." 

"  Perhaps  it  is ;  but  you  will  bear  with  it  this  time  :  it  is  the 
last!"  he  said,  sadly. 

She  felt  the  words,  but  with  an  effort  worthy  of  her  sister,  she 
controlled  herself,  and  said: 

"What  shall  I  read?" 

"The  same  old  thing,  Eva,  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold. 
I  would  like  to  hear  you  read  it  once  more  before  I  go." 

She  took  Byron  from  the  bookcase,  and  read  as  he  requested. 
He  did  not  interrupt  her,  as  he  usually  did,  to  comment  upon  his 
favorite  passages,  but  was  perfectly  quiet  until  she  had  finished. 
Then  she  asked : 

."  Shall  I  read  another  canto,  Willie?" 

"No,  thank  you;  that  is  enough." 

His  eyes  were  closed,  and  there  was  an  expression  upon  his 
face  that  she  could  not  exactly  interpret.  She  could  not  tell 
whether  it  was  sadness,  or  weariness,  or  pain ;  but  thinking  that 
he  wanted  to  be  quiet,  and  hoping  that  he  might  fall  asleep,  she 
sat  very  still,  glad  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  think. 

She  was  sitting  upon  a  low  chair  beside  the  sofa,  a  little  in 
front  of  him,  so  that  she  could  not  see  him  without  turning  her 
head.  She  leaned  her  face  on  her  hand,  and  thought  of  this,  the 
last  evening;  another  day  and  he  would  be  far  away,  and  she 
would  sadly  miss  the  employment  that  had  now  become  almost  a 
necessity  of  her  life.  Willie  was  very  quiet,  and  she  thought  that 
he  was  sleeping ;  but  he  was  watching  her  face,  and  reading  there 


CAMERON    HALL.  291 

the  pain  that  was  in  her  heart,  and  which  no  effort  could  suc- 
cessfally  disguise.  An  hour  before,  his  own  heart  would  have 
bounded  to  have  seen  that  expression,  for  he  would  have  put 
upon  it  the  interpretation  that  he  so  ardently  desired ;  but  now, 
he  saw  in  it  only  a  sister's  regret  for  a  brother's  departure,  and 
he  was  now  painfully  conscious  that  it  was  no  sister's  love  from 
Eva  that  would  satisfy  him. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  thought,  "  she  looks  upon  me  as  nothing  more 
than  a  boy.  I  am  scarcely  more,  it  is  true  ;  but  I  am  older  than 
she  is.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  have  done  nothing  yet  to  dis- 
tinguish myself;  but  it  is  not  too  late.  I  may  yet  do  something 
to  make  me  worthy  of  her,  and  I  know  that  I  would,  if  she 
would  only  tell  me  that  then  she  would  welcome  me  to  her  heart 
as  something  more  than  brother.  Brother !  how  much  pain  that 
word  has  given  me!  I  would  give  worlds  if  she  would  only 
recall  it  1  I  may  be  satisfied  to  be  a  brother  to  her  sister;  to 
herself  I  must  be  something  nearer  than  that,  or  nothing.  Per- 
haps she  will  recall  it,  or  modify  it;  I  will  see." 

He  took  the  hand  on  which  her  face  was  resting,  and  said  : 

"  You  look  troubled,  Eva.  I  would  be  glad  to  think  that  my 
departure  has  something  to  do  with  it.  I  wish  that  I  could  be- 
lieve that  it  gives  you  as  much  pain  as  it  costs  me." 

"  If  it  will  afford  you  any  pleasure,  Willie,  to  know  that  I  am 
sorry  to  give  you  up,  yon  are  welcome  to  it.  I  shall  miss  you 
sorely,  for,"  she  added,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  I  will  no  longer  have 
a  wayward  invalid  to  watch  over,  to  find  fault  with,  to  bring 
flowers  to,  and  to  entertain." 

"  Kor  will  you  have  to  keep  quiet  any  longer,  Eva.  There 
will  be  no  sick  soldier,  whose  sleep  you  can  disturb,  so  that  you 
and  Carlo  may  have  the  freedom  of  the  house,  and  the  privilege 
of  making  as  much  noise  as  you  please." 

*'A  privilege  of  which  we  shall  probably  not  avail  ourselves. 
We  have  been  quiet  so  long  now  that  it  is  no  restraint.  I  have 
not  cared  to  romp  lately.  Perhaps  sister's  wishes  are  at  last 
about  to  be  realized,  and  I  am  actually  becoming  a  woman  in 
feeling  as  well  as  in  years.  Besides,  Willie,  I  shall  not  feel  like 
a  frolic  for  a  long  time  after  you  are  gone.  How  long  before  we 
shall  see  you  at  the  Hall  again  ?" 

"Ah,  Eva  I  I  cannot  tell.  That  depends  upon  two  things  :  my 
duty  in  the  army,  and  whether  I  would  be  welcome  here  again." 

Eva  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  in  surprise,  and  then,  burst- 
ing into  a  laugh  that  bad  in  it  some  of  the  usual  merriment, 

said : 

"  Welcome,  indeed,  you  foolish  boy !  As  if  you  did  not  know 
that  you  would  be  always  welcome  at  the  Hall  I     Were  you  not 


292  CAMERON    HALL. 

welcome  as  a  stranger?  Do  you  expect  to  be  less  so  as  a 
friend  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  have  not  said  exactly  what  I  meant.  It  is  not 
that  I  am  doubtful  of  a  welcome ;  bat  I  may  be  of  the  kind  of 
one  that  I  must  have." 

"  Well,  exacting  sir,  you  shall  have  one  that  will  satisfy  even 
you.  You  shall  not  be  received  as  stranger  or  even  friend.  You 
shall  have  just  such  a  warm,  affectionate  welcome  as  Walter  him- 
self shall  have  when  he  returns.     Will  that  suffice?" 

The  old  expression  returned,  whether  pain  or  weariness,  she 
could  not  tell ;  again  he  closed  his  eyes  for  a  minute,  and  then 
replied,  sadly: 

"  Perhaps  so;   at  any  rate,  I  suppose  it  must." 

They  were  silent  a  little  while,  and  then  Eva  asked: 

"  Willie,  are  you  obliged  to  go  ?" 

"  'Obliged  to  go,'  Eva !     I  do  not  understand  you." 

"I  mean,  would  it  not  be  possible  to  stay?" 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  possible,  if  I  were  willing  to  run  the  risk  of 
being  made  prisoner." 

"  But  papa  said  this  morning  that  in  your  condition  they  would 
not  send  you  away  to  prison.  They  would  parole  you,  and  then 
you  could  stay  with  us,  and  they  would  not  trouble  you." 

"But,  Eva,  do  you  know  what  is  meant  by  a  paroled  pris- 
oner ?" 

"  Yes ;  papa  said  that  you  could  not  fight  any  more  until  you 
were  exchanged." 

"Eva,"  said  Willie,  looking  fixedly  at  her,  "would  you  have 
me  to  do  this  ?  Would  you  have  me,  for  fear  of  pain  or  trouble 
or  inconvenience,  surrender  myself  a  prisoner  to  the  Federals, 
promising  not  to  fight  again  until  I  was  exchanged,  even  if  that 
might  be  for  two  or  three  years,  or  during  the  war  ?  What  would 
you  think  of  me,  Eva,  if  I  were  to  do  this  ?" 

"  I  would  not  have  you  do  it  for  anything  in  the  world,  Willie, 
if  you  were  well;  but  when  you  risk  your  life  in  avoiding  it,  that 
is  another  thing." 

"I  do  not  risk  my  life,  Eva.  I  can  go  as  far  as  the  doctor 
orders  with  perfect  safety.  I  will  suff'er  some  pain,  and  a  good 
deal  of  fatigue  from  the  journey,  but  that  is  all ;  and  you  know 
that  if,  for  fear  of  this,  I  could  stay  here  quietly  and  submit  to 
being  made  prisoner,  you  would  be  the  very  first  one  to  feel  for 
me  the  hearty  contempt  that  I  would  deserve.  No,  Eva,  I  will 
have  to  be  literally  at  death's  door,  and  utterly  unable  to  get  away, 
before  I  am  ever  taken  prisoner  without  an  effort  to  escape." 

There  was  another  silence,  which  Eva  presently  broke,  by  ask- 
ing, suddenly: 


CAMERON    HALL.  293 

"  Willie,  will  you  do  something  for  me  ?" 

"Anything  that  mortal  man  can  do  ;  at  least  that  mortal  man 
in  my  present  helpless  condition  can  do,  I  will  do  for  you." 

"It  will  not  require  exertion  ;  it  is  only  a  promise." 

"  Well,  anything  to  gratify  you  ;   what  is  it  ?" 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  not  try  to  go  home  until  the  doctor 
tells  you  that  it  would  be  safe  to  do  it." 

"A  hard  request,  Eva.  1  will  promise  not  to  go  until  I  am 
quite  able  to  bear  the  journey." 

"  That  will  not  do;  I  do  not  care  to  exact  any  promise  at  all 
unless  it  is  one  that  will  entirely  satisfy  me.  How  long  before  he 
thought  you  could  go  ?" 

"  Six  weeks  ;  but  anybody  can  see  how  preposterous  that  is. 
If  I  am  not  well  in  six  weeks  and  ready  to  join  my  regiment,  I 
shall  despair  of  ever  being  able  to  go  into  service  again.  If  I 
am  to  wait  any  longer  than  that,  I  might  as  well  resign  at  once, 
for  the  fighting  will  be  over  and  peace  declared  before  I  am  able 
to  do  any  more  of  it.  I  will  promise,  Eva,  not  to  do  anything 
imprudent,  for  I  am  sure  that  nobody  can  be  half  as  anxious  for 
me  to  get  well  as  I  am  myself." 

"Anxious  you  may  be,  Willie ;  but  you  are  nevertheless  im- 
prudent, as  I  can  testify.  If  you  had  not  had  such  tyrannical 
nurses,  you  would  not  have  been  to  day  as  well  as  you  are." 

"If  I  had  not  had  such  nurses  (leaving  out  the  disagreeable 
adjective),  I  am  very  sure  that  I  never  should  have  been  well  at 
all ;  but,  thanks  to  their  tuition,  I  know  how  to  take  care  of  my- 
self now,  and  I  promise  you  that  I  intend  to  do  it." 

"All  this  will  not  do,  Willie.  I  must  return  to  my  original 
proposition.  Will  you  or  will  you  not  gratify  me  by  making 
this  promise  ?" 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  asked  :  "  Did  you  say  that  it 
would  gratify  you,  Eva  ?" 

"  Yes,  very  much." 

"  Do  you  understand  what  a  sacrifice  it  involves  ?  Do  you  re- 
member that  you  are  condemning  me,  in  my  present  weak  state, 
to  the  discomfort  and  loneliness  of  a  strange  place,  and  the 
society  of  strangers  ?" 

"  Have  you  before  found  much  discomfort  or  loneliness  in  the 
society  of  strangers  ?" 

"  No,  Eva  ;  but  I  do  not  expect  to  find  Cameron  Halls  all  over 
the  Confederacy." 

"  Nevertheless,  Willie,  you  will  acknowledge  that  you  do  not 
believe  that  all  the  kindness,  sympathy,  and  good  feeling  of  the 
Confederacy  are  pent  up  within  the  four  walls  of  this  old  Yir- 

25* 


294  CAMERON     HALL. 

ginia  country-house,  where  you  happened  to  find  a  home  in  your 
sufifering.  On  the  contrary,  you  must  rather  think  that  if  you 
found  enough  of  it  here  to  make  you  comfortable,  how  much  there 
must  be  scattered  throughout  the  Confederacy  in  its  thousands 
of  homes  I  I  am  not  condemning  you  to  loneliness  and  priva- 
tion ;  I  am  only  sending  you  away  to  find  out  that  there  is  more 
kindness  in  the  world  besides  what  you  have  found  here.  You 
have  never  given  me  a  direct  answer  to  my  question,  yet ;  will 
you  promise,  or  not?" 

"You  are  exacting,  Eva." 

"  Call  me  exacting,  pertinacious,  unreasonable,  anything,  if 
you  will  only  promise  that  you  will  not,  for  six  weeks,  go  far- 
ther from  here  than  one  day's  travel  on  the  railroad.  Will 
you  ?" 

"  I  will,  on  one  condition  ;  and  that  is,  if  you  will  give  me  per- 
mission to  return  here  in  three  weeks  if  the  country  is  free.  If 
you  will  give  me  this  to  look  forward  to,  perhaps  I  can  endure  it 
that  long." 

"  That  condition  is  very  easily  granted,  since  it  will  afford  us  as 
much  pleasure  as  it  will  give  you.  Yes,  in  three  weeks,  if  it  is 
safe  for  you  to  come,  you  shall  return  to  the  Hall." 

"  Cannot  I  come  before  ?" 

"No,  I  positively  forbid  it;  and  not  even  then,  unless  you  are 
stronger  and  otherwise  better  than  you  are  now.  You  see, 
Willie,  that  you  cannot  escape  your  exacting  nurses  even  by 
going  away ;  their  directions  and  orders  for  the  future  must  still 
go  along  with  you." 

"And  I  have  no  objection  to  carrying  them  along,  and  obey- 
ing them,  too,  provided  that  they  are  reasonable  ;  but  you  must 
take  care  to  make  them  so  if  you  expect  obedience.  Now  what 
do  you  say  to  writing  ?  Am  I  to  be  allowed  or  denied  that 
privilege  ?" 

"  You  are  not  only  allowed  it,  but  it  is  positively  enjoined  upon 
you;  and  if  you  do  not  avail  yourself  of  it,  the  nurses  at  the  Hall 
will  be  both  disappointed  and  provoked." 

"  How  often  may  I  write  ?" 

"  Just  as  often  as  you  feel  disposed  and  are  able  to  do  so." 

"  Thank  you  for  that  gracious  permission,  Eva  I  I  began  to 
think  that  I  was  not  only  to  be  driven  into  exile,  but  also  fet- 
tered down  by  inexorable  decrees  to  everything  that  was  dis- 
agreeable, and  denied  everything  that  was  pleasant." 

"  By  no  means,  Willie.  I  want  you  to  have  every  enjoyment 
consistent  with  your  health." 

"One  thing  more  :  how  often  may  I  hear  from  the  Hall  ?" 


CAMERON    HALL.  295 

"Just  as  often  as  you  wish  it." 

"  Thauk  you  very  much  for  that  promise.  I  ask  a  daily  letter 
from  you." 

"Good  gracious,  Willie  !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  really  thought 
that  I  was  talking  to  a  reasonable  being,  when  I  made  the 
promise.  Surely  you  forget  that  I  have  Walter  to  write  to,  and 
he  is  unreasonable  about  wanting  frequent  letters ;  but  even  ho 
has  never  yet  made  such  an  unheard-of  demand  as  that." 

"  Nevertheless,  your  promise  was  positive  and  unconditional, 
and  its  fulfillment  requires  a  daily  letter.  Will  it  be  such  a  sac- 
rifice, Eva  ?" 

"  It  would  certainly  be  on  your  part,"  she  answered,  laughing. 
"A  daily  letter  from  me  would  kill  anybody  in  the  world." 

"  I  am  willing  to  risk  it.     Will  you  promise  ?" 

"  Indeed,  Willie,  as  I  always  like  to  keep  a  promise,  I  must 
think  a  little  while  before  I  answer  you." 

"Would  it  be  such  an  effort,  Eva,  to  write  to  me?  Would 
you  feel  it  so  to  write  to  that  brother  to  whom  you  so  constantly 
compare  me  ?" 

"No,  indeed  !  When  I  write  to  Walter,  I  am  under  no  more 
restraint  than  if  I  were  talking  to  him.  I  don't  care  either  how 
the  letter  looks  or  what  is  in  it,  and  should  not  be  at  all  distressed 
if  Carlo  were  to  jump  into  my  lap,  and,  dipping  his  foot  into  the 
inkstand,  add  a  postscript  to  my  letter.  But  with  you  the  case 
, would  be  different." 

"  It  must  not  be,  Eva.  You  have  seen  best  in  other  respects 
to  place  me  on  an  equality  with  Walter,  and  if  there  are  any 
benefits  resulting  from  the  position,  it  is  but  fair  that  I  should 
enjoy  them.  Grant  me  this  one  favor ;  write  me  just  such  free, 
unrestrained,  home-like  letters  as  you  send  your  brother.  Will 
you  ?"  he  asked  earnestly. 

"Indeed,  Willie,"  she  answered,  "you  know  not  what  you 
ask.  What  would  you  care  for  a  letter  full  of  Carlo  and  Dixie 
and  Rebel,  with  whom  you  are  not  acquainted ;  and  the  grove 
and  the  brook  and  the  old  walnut-tree,  where  you  have  never 
been  ?     These  are  the  themes  with  which  I  entertain  Walter." 

"  Is  there  nothing  else  in  your  letters  ?" 

"Yes,  a  little.  I  tell  him  about  papa,  sister,  and  myself; 
what  we  do  every  day,  how  I  think  and  feel,  how  much  I  miss 
]»m,  and  long  for  his  return ;  in  short,  I  tell  him  everything." 

"  Will  you  promise  me  just  such  letters  as  these  without  the 
out-door  details  ?  Will  you  give  me  a  faithful  picture  of  the 
home-scene,  the  inner  life  of  the  Hall  ?  You  see  that  I  can  be 
pertinacious  as  well  as  yourself.  You  have  set  me  the  example, 
and  in  this  case  will  find  me  not  unwilling  to  follow  it.    I  yielded 


296  CAMERON    HALL. 

to  your  demand,  and  promised  to  submit  to  the  weariness  and 
loneliness  of  a  six  weeks'  sojourn  among  strangers;  let  me  see 
if  you  are  generous  enough  to  do  what  you  can  to  relieve  the 
tedium  to  which  you  yourself  have  condemned  me.  Say,  Eva, 
will  you  promise  ?" 

"Poor  Willie  1"  she  answered,  smiling,  "you  little  dream  that 
the  letters  for  which  you  are  so  earnestly  pleading  will  only  serve 
to  increase  the  monotony,  instead  of  relieving  it.  But  be  it  as 
you  wish ;  you  shall  have  a  daily  letter.  It  may  be  that  if  it 
serves  no  other  purpose,  it  may,  as  sister  would  say,  teach  you 
the  useful  lesson  that  in  this  world  we  sometimes  get  what  we 
have  most  desired  only  to  be  bitterly  disappointed." 

"Yery  well,"  he  answered,  joyfully.  "If  such  should  be  my 
lesson  now,  I  promise  to  accept  it  without  a  murmur." 

"  You  don't  intend  to  restrict  me  to  home  details,  do  you, 
Willie  ?" 

"  I  restrict  you  to  nothing,  Eva.  Home  details  will  be  most 
interesting  to  me,  but  I  should  be  very  ungrateful  if  I  were  in- 
different to  others.  Uncle  John  and  Agnes  will  always  interest 
me,  and  Agnes's  mother,  too,  whose  low  voice,  and  gentle  touch, 
and  soothing  manner,  I  can  never  forget  during  those  days  and 
nights  of  suffering  that  she  and  your  sister  nursed  me.  It  is 
wonderful  what  firmness  and  fortitude  can  be  shown  by  such  deli- 
cately organized  women  as  they  are." 

"  It  is  no  less  wonderful  to  me,  Willie.   It  is  well  for  you  that  you. 
were  not  left  to  my  care.     I  can  nurse  and  wait  on  the  sick  un- 
tiringly ;  but  if  your  life  had  depended  on  it,  I  could  not  have 
helped  Uncle  John  tie  up  those  arteries  as  sister  did." 

"  It  was  a  great  effort  for  her,"  said  Willie.  "  I  saw  that  plainly 
enough,  and  was  as  much  relieved  on  her  account  as  on  my  own, 
when  I  saw  the  surgeon." 

"  Have  you  slept  any  this  afternoon  ?"  inquired  Julia,  coming 
into  the  room. 

"  Slept !  No,  indeed,  not  the  last  day  that  I  am  to  stay  at  the 
Hall  1  I  shall  have  time  enough  for  that  during  the  next  six 
weeks  ;  and  expect  to  do  enough  of  it,  too.  The  forgetfulness  of 
sleep  will  be  my  chief  comfort." 

"  Come,  Willie,"  said  Julia,  "  you  must  not  go  away  to  be  sad 
and  desponding.  I  regret  as  much  as  you  can  do  that  you  are 
obliged  to  go  before  you  are  entirely  recovered  ;  but  you  must  b^ 
cheerful.     You  will  get  well  much  faster  if  you  are." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eva,  "cheerful  and  prudent !  Don't  forget  the  last, 
sister.  I  have  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  evening,  trying  to 
convince  him  that  it  is  prudent  and  necessary  that  he  should  obey 
the  doctor,  and  not  try  to  go  home  for  six  weeks.    He  has  finally 


CAMERON    HALL.  297 

yielded,  and  it  will  only  require  a  very  few  words  from  you  to  make 
my  lecture  entirely  eflfectual." 

"Eva  preaching  prudence  !"'  exclaimed  Julia,  raising  both  her 
hands.  "  That  would  indeed  be  a  sermon  worth  hearing  !  She 
could  illustrate  her  subject  so  forcibly  from  her  own  experience 
and  practice  I" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  Willie  answered,  laughing.  "I 
have  heard  that  sometimes  theory  and  practice  don't  go  together; 
but  I  must  say  that  my  fair  young  preacher  seemed  to  understand 
her  subject  well  enough  theoretically.  She  urged  prudence  in  a 
very  downright  practical  way,  and  told  me  in  plain  terms  what  I 
ought  to  do." 

"Which,  sister  says,  Willie,  is  the  best  preaching  in  the  world. 
And  if  its  character  is  to  be  judged  by  its  results,  my  sermon  must 
have  been  good ;  for  it  was  effectual,  and  has  already  changed 
the  purposes  of  my  listener,  as  you  yourself  can  testify." 

"That  is  a  privilege  enjoyed  by  very  few  older  and  more  ex- 
perienced preachers  than  you  are,  Eva,"  said  a  voice  at  the  door. 
"  Such  visible  and  speedy  results  from  a  single  sermon  do  not 
often  gladden  the  minister's  heart." 

"Where  on  earth  did  you  come  from,  Mr.  Derby?"  exclaimed- 
Eva,  laughing. 

"I  hope  that  you  will  forgive  the  eaves-dropping,  Eva.  To 
listen  to  you  discussing  the  merits  of  a  sermon  of  your  own  might 
well  prove  an  irresistible  temptation  to  a  stronger  will  than  mine." 

"Never  mind,  Mr.  Derby,  you  may  laugh  as  much  as  you 
please ;  but  I  still  insist  upon  it  that,  arguing  the  worth  of  my 
sermon  from  its  practical  results,  nobody  could  have  done  it  bet- 
ter, although  I  say  it  1" 

"  Hurrah,  Eva,"  said  Mr.  Derby  "  You  not  only  magnify  your 
office,  but  yourself  along  with  it.  Come,  now,  let  me  hear  the 
subject  of  this  wonderfully  successful  sermon." 

"Prudence!"  replied  Eva,  demurely,  and  trying  hard  to  keep 
back  the  smile  that  lingered  around  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

Mr.  Derby  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  laughed 
heartily. 

"  Prudence  VI  he  repeated.  "  Well,  my  child,  I  cannot  imagine 
why  you  chose  that  subject,  unless  it  was  because  you  had  very 
close  at  hand  a  lamentable  illustration  of  the  want  of  it.  Some- 
times the  necessity  of  a  virtue  can  be  most  strongly  enforced  b^ 
the  result  of  its  absence  !  But  tell  me  how  you  went  to  work. 
Perhaps  I  can  gain  from  you  a  few  practical  hints  in  the  way  of 
making  sermons  effective ;  it  would  certainly  be  a  secret  worth 
knowing.  Your  subject  was  Prudence.  Next  in  order  come  the 
divisions ;  what  were  the  heads  ?" 


298  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Divisions  I  Heads  1  I  didn't  need  anything  of  that  sort ;  and 
besides,  my  subject  was  not  susceptible  of  division.  I  would  like 
to  know,  Mr.  Derby,  how  you  could  divide  Prudence  I" 

"Perhaps  that  is  the  reason,  Eva,  that  none  of  it  fell  to  your 
share,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "However,  your  headless  ser- 
mon is  after  all  not  altogether  an  anomaly ;  for  I  have  listened  to 
many  in  my  life  that  were  quite  as  innocent  of  all  the  rules  that 
we  learned  at  the  seminary.  Let  us  see  now  if  it  had  the  third 
requisite.  Thus  far,  your  skeleton  reads :  Subject,  Prudence ; 
Heads,  none.  Now,  thirdly,  for  the  logic.  By  what  arguments 
did  you  enfcft'ce  your  subjects  ?" 

"Arguments  1  What  on  earth,  Mr.  Derby,  would  I  want  with 
an  argument  to  prove  that  people  ought  to  be  prudent  I  No,  in- 
deed !  I  didn't  want  any  arguments." 

"  Well,  Eva,  what  did  you  have,  and  what  did  you  do  ?" 

"I  just  told  him  his  duty  so  plainly  and  clearly  that  he  could 
not  help  seeing  it;  and  I  pinned  him  down  to  the  subject  until  he 
had  promised  to  do  it." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Derby,  "we  have  at  last  reached  some  of 
the  true  elements  of  sermonizing.  Plainness  and  directness  are 
indispensable,  and  sometimes  effectual ;  but  not  always  so.  I 
have  known  them  to  fail.  It  may  be,  Eva,  that  the  secret  of  the 
practical  power  of  your  sermon  may,  after  all,  be  found  in  the 
temper  and  disposition  of  the  listener.  Much  frequently  depends 
upon  that.  How  wtis  it,  Willie  ?  Were  you  disposed  to  listen 
and  to  receive  the  truth  ?" 

"In  that  respect,  sir,  she  had  very  serious  obstacles  to  over- 
come. Her  listener  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  receive  .her  instruc- 
tions, and  resisted  for  a  long  time." 

"  Still  there  is  something  unexplained,"  said  Mr.  Derby.  "  She 
used  no  arguments  to  convince  the  reason  and  judgment.  She 
only  made  duty  clear  to  an  unwilling  heart.  Now  there  must 
have  been  something  to  overcome  that  unwillingness  and  make  it 
yield.    What  was  it,  Willie  ?" 

"She  promised  a  reward,  sir." 

"Aha  1  that  is  the  secret !  Well,  the  hope  of  reward  is  a  legiti- 
mate argument  for  the  preacher ;  and  so  her  sermon  had,  after 
all,  some  of  the  proper  elements;  though  I  thought,  in  the  begin- 
ning, that  she  was  about  to  strike  out  an  entirely  new  method." 

"  Mr.  Derby,'^  said  Eva,  laughing,  "  I  am  entirely  at  your  ser- 
vice, sir.  Any  time  that  you  are  indisposed  to  write,  or  that 
your  ingenuity  fails,  just  send  to  me  and  I  will  prepare  for  you  a 
sermon,  so  unconscious  of  divisions  and  logic,  that  it  will  amaze 
if  it  does  not  edify  your  congregation." 

"  Thank  you,  for  your  kind  offer,  Eva.    I  will  not  forget  it,  and 


CAMERON    HALL.  299 

hope  that  when  I  apply  to  you  for  assistance,  you  will  be  careful 
to  choose  a  subject  upon  which  my  life  and  character  afford  as 
remarkable  a  commentary  as  yours  do  upon  the  subject  of  your 
present  discourse.-' 

"  I  will  attend  to  that,  sir.  But  there  may  still  be  another 
reason  why  this  one  was  preached  with  greater  power  and  effect. 
It  was  a  farewell  sermon.  Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  that  Willie 
leaves  us  in  the  morning." 

"  Yes,  it  is  that  which  has  brought  me  to  the  Hall  this  even- 
ing. I  only  heard  a  little  while  ago  that  he  would  leave  us  to- 
morrow. I  am  sorry,  Willie,  that  you  must  go  while  you  are  so 
much  of  an  invalid." 

"It  is  certainly  much  to  be  regretted  on  my  part,  sir,  for  I 
shall  sadly  miss  the  care  and  attention  to  which  I  have  been  so 
long  accustomed  here.  I  hope,  some  of  these  days,  Mr.  Derby, 
to  prove  that  I  was  not  wholly  unworthy  of  it." 

"  You  must  not  wait  so  long  as  that,  Willie,"  said  Eva.  "  The 
surest  way  of  proving  yourself  worthy  of  our  care  is  to  be  pru- 
dent, and  get  well  just  as  fast  as  you  can.  Then  we  will  know 
that  our  time  and  attention  were  not  wasted,  and  (which  is  by  no 
means  an  unimportant  consideration)  that  our  sermons  upon 
Prudence,  etc.  were  not  thrown  away.  But  who  are  those  with 
papa  in  the  buggy  ?  Grace  and  Agnes,  I  do  believe,  and  Uncle 
John  coming  behind  on  horseback  I  Why,  Willie,  I  declare  you 
are  quite  a  belle  I" 

"Perhaps,  Eva,  I  would  not  be  quite  so  much  so  elsewhere. 
Cameron  Hall  does  not  need  a  wounded  boy  to  make  it  an  attrac- 
tive place,  as  Uncle  John  himself  would  cheerfully  testify." 

"Nevertheless,  you  are  certainly  the  attraction  this  evening. 
Agnes  will  be  greatly  distressed  at  your  going  away ;  and  the 
organ  will  groan  with  the  saddest  of  wails  for  days  to  come.  I 
am  sorry  that  you  have  to  go  before  you  have  ever  heard  her 
play." 

"It  will  give  me  one  more  pleasure,  Eva,"  he  answered,  "to 
look  forward  to  when  I  return  to  the  Hall." 

The  party  now  came  in,  and  the  evening  would  have  passed  off 
pleasantly  enough,  but  for  a  single  regret  that  overshadowed  them 
all.  Eva  was  rather  gratified  than  otherwise,  that  there  should 
have  been  a  large  circle  at  the  Hall  on  this,  Willie's  last  evening. 
She  did  not  enjoy  it,  but  it  occupied  her  and  kept  her  from  think- 
ing. When  Julia  was  in  trouble,  she  liked  to  be  alone,  until  she 
had  brought  both  thoughts  and  feelings  under  control;  while 
Eva,  on  the  contrary,  liked  an  excitement  that  would  drown  her 
thoughts  altogether.  So  this  evening,  while  there  was  nothing 
exciting  in  the  familiar  circle  gathered  in  the  library,  still  there 


300  CAMERON    HALL. 

was  employment  enough  to  keep  her  thoughts  from  being  pain- 
fully fixed  upon  the  morrow ;  and  the  general  conversation,  in 
which  she  tried  to  take  part,  was  a  relief  to  her. 

When  the  last  good-by  had  been  spoken,  and  they  were  all 
gone,  Willie  said : 

"  Eva,  when  you  write  to  me,  I  want  you  never  to  forget  Mr. 
Derby.  He  has  been  very  kind  to  me  ever  since  I  have  been 
here;  and  has  just  now  given  me  a  few  parting  words  of  advice 
that  I  trust  I  will  treasure  up  and  act  upon.  I  am  glad  to  know 
Mr.  Derby.  The  life  of  such  a  man  is  a  powerful  witness  to  the 
truth  of  religion." 

The  next  morning  everything  was  ready  for  departure.  The 
carriage  was  at  the  door  for  Willie,  and  the  buggy  for  Julia  and 
her  father.  Mr.  Cameron  was  at  the  carriage,  arranging  the 
cushions  and  pillows,  and  Julia  had  gone  to  put  on  her  bonnet. 
Willie  was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the  library,  and  Eva  was  stand- 
ing at  the  window  silently  watching  her  father.  Her  heart  was 
full ;  but  her  sister's  lesson  the  day  before  made  her  strive  hard 
to  keep  down  her  feelings,  even  though  she  now  felt  quite  secure 
against  misconstruction.     Presently  Willie  said  : 

"It  is  time  for  you  to  get  your  bonnet,  Eva." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  town,  Willie,"  she  answered. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,"  she  replied,  evasively,  "you  ought  to  have  the 
whole  carriage  to  yourself,  and  papa  and  sister  are  going  in  the 
buggy,  so  that  there  is  no  room  for  me." 

"  I  cannot  possibly  occupy  the  whole  carriage,  Eva,  and  if  I 
go  alone,  the  ride  will  be  a  very  lonely  one." 

"  Then  sister  will  go  with  you,  and  papa  can  go  alone." 

"Will  you  not  go  with  me  if  I  ask  it?" 

"  I  would  rather  not,  Willie.  I  prefer  parting  with  my  friends 
at  my  own  home.  I  did  not  go  to  town  when  Walter  went 
away." 

"Eva,  it  is  my  special  request,  and  my  last.  You  need  not  go 
to  the  railroad;  I  only  ask  you  to  ride  with  me  to  town.  You 
can  stop  at  Uncle  John's.     Will  you  go  ?" 

She  did  not  reply ;  but  went  immediately  to  her  room,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  returned  ready  for  the  ride^. 

Willie  was  assisted  into  the  carriage,  pillows  and  cushions 
were  arranged  to  support  him,  Eva  took  her  seat  opposite,  and 
the  order  was  given  to  drive  on  slowly.  He  could  not  move  his 
body,  but  his  eyes  turned  with  the  windings  of  the  road,  and 
lingered  upon  the  Hall  as  long  as  roof  or  chimney  was  visible. 
At  last,  when  it  was  completely  hidden  from  view,  he  said : 

"  Farewell,  dear  old  Hall,  for  a  little  while,  but  only  for  a 


CAMERON    HALL.  301 

Tery  little  while  I     In  three  weeks  I  shall   certainly  see   you 
again." 

"Not  certainly,  Willie,  but  only  conditionally.  You  are  not 
to  come  unless  we  are  free,  and  you  are  better." 

"  The  first  condition  I  shall  certainly  observe,  for  it  would  be 
wrong  to  run  any  risk  of  that  sort  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
anybody;  but  the  second  I  beg  leave  to  use  my  own  discretion 
about.  Whether  I  am  better  or  not,  if  it  is' safe,  and  I  am  able 
to  get  here  at  all,  I  shall  certainly  come.  Shall  I  have  the  wel- 
come that  I  would  desire?" 

"Yes,  such  a  one  as  you  cannot  complain  of,  and  it  maybe, 
along  with  it,  a  hearty  scolding  for  coming  at  all,  if  you  were  im- 
prudent in  doing  so.  I  do  hope,  however,  that  by  that  time  you 
will  be  not  only  able  to  come  back,  but  also  to  take  some  exer- 
cise. I  want  you  to  walk  with  me  through  the  grove,  and  along 
the  brook.  Even  if  it  is  winter,  you  will  be  able  to  form  some 
idea  of  my  beautiful  rambles  when  the  trees  are  bright  and 
green,  and  the  woods  are  full  of  wild  flowers,  and  the  waters 
ripple  along  with  such  a  sweet,  refreshing  sound.  I  love  the 
old  Hall,  Willie,"  she  added,  "and  every  spot  around  it!" 

"And  so  do  I,  Eva,"  he  answered,  earnestly. 

They  were  silent  for  some  time,  and  then  he  said,  suddenly : 

"Eva,  I  specially  regret  the  hurried  manner  in  which  I  am 
compelled  to  go  away  now.  Mr.  Derby  has  talked  to  me  a  great 
deal,  so  has  your  sister,  and  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  since  I 
have  been  lying  on  my  bed  of  pain.  I  have  never  been  baptized. 
I  do  not  want  to  go  back  into  the  army  without  it,  and  I  particu- 
larly want  Mr.  Derby  to  do  it,  and  have  for  some  weeks  intended 
that  he  should,  just  as  soon  as  I  was  able  to  go  to  town." 

"Oh,  Willie!"  she  answered,  "I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say 
that.  I  can  let  you  go  a  great  deal  more  willingly  now!  Mr. 
Derby  will  baptize  you  when  you  come  back." 

"  Yes,  Eva,  and  that  shall  be  one  great  inducement  to  come  in 
spite  of  obstacles.  Indeed,  nothing  shall  prevent  my  return  ex- 
cept impossibilities.  But  it  may  be  that  I  cannot  get  here.  The 
Federals  may  occupy  the  place  in  three  weeks,  or  my  condition 
may  be  such  as  to  render  locomotion  impossible." 

"  Then  Mr.  Derby  will  go  to  you,  and  he  will  do  it  with  the 
greatest  pleasure.  But,  Willie,  I  always  hope  for  the  best,  and 
so  must  you.  Let  us  both  expect  that  you  will  come  back  al- 
most well,  and  that  on  a  clear,  bright  Sunday  morning,  our 
hearts  will  be  gladdened  by  seeing  you  baptized  into  the  fold  of 
the  church.     Oh,  Willie,  sister  will  be  so  glad !" 

"And  she  may  well  be,  Eva,"  he  replied,  with  feeling,  "since 

26 


302  CAMERON    HALL. 

she  herself  has  had  no  little  to  do  with  it.  It  may  be  that  I 
owe  to  Cameron  Hall,  and  to  Mr.  Derby,  more  than  the  life  of 
the  body !" 

They  talked  no  more  during  the  drive  to  town.  It  took  them 
a  long  time  to  get  there,  and  when  they  stopped  at  Uncle  John's 
gate,  Mr.  Cameron  and  Julia,  who  had  been  waiting  a  long 
while  for  them,  said  that  there  was  no  time  to  spare,  and  that 
they  must  hurry  to  the  depot. 

"  Good-by,  Willie !"  said  Eva.  "  I  must  leave  you  now.  Good- 
byl  God  bless  you  !" 

"God  bless  you,  Eva!"  he  said,  grasping  her  hand.  "  God 
bless  you,  my  more  than  friend  I" 

He  held  her  hand  firmly,  and  looked  earnestly  at  her  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  she  sprang  out  of  the  carriage,  and,  rushing  into 
the  house,  went  into  Uncle  John's  room  and  bolted  the  door. 
The  long  pent-up  feelings  burst  forth  now,  and  there  was  no 
need  to  restrain  them.  She  did  not  know  how  long  they  had 
been  gone,  but  the  railroad  whistle,  as  the  train  moved  off, 
startled  her,  and  she  hastily  bathed  her  face  and  brushed  her 
hair,  and  tried  to  remove  all  traces  of  her  grief  before  the  party 
should  return. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  that  it  grieves 
me  so  to  give  up  my  friends.  Other  people  either  do  not  feel  it 
so  much,  or  have  the  power  to  control  themselves.  I  wish,"  she 
added,  as  she  felt  herself  giving  way  again,  "  I  wish  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  that  I  never  could  make  another  friend  while 
I  live  !  I  thought  when  Walter  went  away  that  it  was  the 
greatest  grief  that  I  ever  could  have,  and  was  truly  thankful 
that  I  had  not  another  brother  to  give  up,  and  now  I  am  almost 
as  much  distressed  to  part  with  Willie  as  I  was  with  Walter  I 
No,  I  don't  want  to  make  any  more  friends ;  it  causes  too  much 
pain  to  give  them  up  1" 

When  she  reached  home,  she  congratulated  herself  that  she 
had  been  able  to  keep  back  her  tears.  She  did  not  know  that 
her  swollen  eyes,  and  flushed  cheeks,  and  unwonted  silence  had 
told  the  tale  as  plainly  as  tears  or  words  could  have  done.  Once 
at  home,  however,  she  no  longer  tried  to  restrain  herself.  A 
glance  into  Willie's  room,  as  she  passed  the  door,  was  enough, 
and  she  hastened  to  her  own  room,  and  throwing  herself  upon 
the  bed,  gave  way  to  another  burst  of  grief. 

"  Best  to  let  her  alone,"  thought  Julia,  as  she  checked  herself 
upon  the  threshold.  "  She  will  be  soonest  relieved  by  thus  empty- 
ing her  heart.  Mistaken  child  1  This  is  no  sister's  love,  no 
sister's  grief;  she  herself  will  before  long  discover  the  differ- 
ence!" 


CAMERON    HALL.  303 

She  went  quietly  away,  and  left  Eva  all  day  by  herself.  She 
took  advantage  of  the  freedom  thus  aflforded  her,  and  if  tears 
could  have  relieved  her,  she  would  have  wept  her  grief  all  away 
in  a  single  day. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


Willie  had  been  gone  a  week,  and  the  days  and  hours  at  the 
Hall  had  seemed  long  and  quiet,  even  to  Julia,  while  to  Eva  they 
had  been  almost  intolerable.  The  expected  raid  of  the  enemy  had 
not  taken  place,  and  apprehension  had  almost  died  out,  so  that 
there  was  not  even  the  excitement  of  alarm  to  vary  the  monotony 
of  their  life.  There  was  no  stirring  news  from  the  army :  letters 
from  Walter  and  Willie,  and  their  answers,  were  the  only  events, 
if  such  they  could  be  called,  in  the  calm  routine  of  their  life.  The 
daily  letter  came  from  Willie,  and  the  daily  response  was  as  duly 
sent,  and  Eva  had  already  found  in  one  short  week  that  it  cost, 
indeed,  no  effort  to  write  to  him,  that  it  was  rather  the  one 
pleasure  to  which  she  looked  forward  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Julia  saw  the  regular  interchange  of  these  letters  with  a  sad 
longing  for  a  similar  pleasure;  for  this  constant  and  unrestrained 
intercourse  contrasted  painfully  with  the  starvation  of  her  own 
heart.  Charles  Beaufort  had  scrupulously  obeyed  her  command. 
Neither  letter,  word,  message,  nor  reminder  of  any  sort  had  ever 
come  to  her.  Many  months  had  now  passed  away;  his  letters 
to  Uncle  John  were  neither  frequent  nor  long,  and  sometimes  he 
would  forget  for  days  to  mention  the  reception  of  one,  and  then 
would  say,  casually: 

"By-the-way,  girls,  I  forgot  to  tell  you.     I  had  a  letter  from 
♦  Charles  some  days  ago,  and,  as  usual,  he  spoke  in  the  kindest 
terms  of  the  Hall,  and  desired  to  be  remembered  to  Mr.  Cameron 
and  the  young  ladies." 

Occasionally  there  would  be  a  special  message  to  his  young 
friend,  Eva,  but  to  Julia,  nothing.  The  only  allusion  to  her 
was  in  connection  with  her  father  and  sister,  as  a  member  of 
the  same  household.  And  this  was  all :  such  a  passing  recog- 
nition of  her  existence  as  any  stranger  might  have  made ;  such  a 
cold  mention  of  her  name  as  he  might  have  made  of  that  of  any 
other  woman  in  the  world  ;  such  a  message  of  respectful  indiffer- 
ence as  chilled  her  to  the  heart,  and  made  her  wish  that  he 
would  never  again  even  allude  to  her  in  Uncle  John's  letters. 
And  while  she  felt  that  it  was  her  own  decree,  yet  at  times  she 
found  herself  indulging  a  momentary  dissatisfaction  with  his 


304  CAMERON    HALL. 

strict  obedience,  and  a  conviction  that  if  his  heart  had  been 
strongly  and  earnestly  interested,  he  would  have  found  it  impossible 
thus  to  restrain  himself.  Such  feelings,  however,  were  only  for  a 
moment,  for  Julia  was  neither  unreasonable  nor  capricious.  She 
had  not  acted  from  impulse  at  first.  What  she  did,  she  had  done  de- 
liberately, and  because  she  believed  that  it  would  be  best  in  the  end 
for  both.  She  had  been  sincere  and  in  earnest  in  her  prohibition  of 
all  intercourse,  for  while  the  fear  of  indifference  or  forgetfulness 
cost  her  a  bitter  pang,  yet  under  the  circumstances  she  knew  that 
it  would  be  best,  and  she  really  desired  to  avoid  everything  that 
could  make  him  cherish  her  memory.  But  while  Julia  was  neither 
capricious,  unreasonable,  nor  insiiicere,  she  was  yet  a  woman, 
with  a  warm,  loving  heart,  whose  afifections,  in  spite  of  herself, 
would  respond  to- that  manly  love  which  she  felt  had  been  sin- 
cerely offered  to  her;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  if  her  heart 
would  sometimes  cry  out  and  rebel  against  the  discipline  which 
she  honestly  believed  was  right  and  necessary.  And  so  when- 
ever she  felt  this  momentary  disappointment,  this  longing  wish 
that  he  would  only  once  break  through  all  restraint  and  send  her 
personally  one  message  or  one  letter,  she  instantly  checked  the 
rising  feeling,  and  put  down  with  an  effort  all  such  wrong,  vain 
desires.  She  had  never  yet  asked  Uncle  John  a  question  about 
him.  All  that  she  knew  of  him,  of  his  health,  his  employments, 
and  his  plans,  she  learned  either  through  Uncle  John's  voluntary 
communications,  or  from  his  answers  to  the  questions  of  her 
father  and  Eva.  For  a  long  time  Eva  had  questioned  him  very 
closely  about  Dr.  Charles's  letters,  but  afterward  her  attention 
was  so  much  engrossed  by  Willie,  that  although  she  did  not 
altogether  lose  her  interest  in  her  former  friend,  yet  her  inquiries 
were  neither  so  frequent  nor  so  minute,  and  Julia  consequently 
knew  much  less  about  him.  So  matters  now  stood,  and  no 
wonder  that  Julia  scarcely  ev^  saw  Eva  break  the  seal  of  Willie's  ' 
regular  letters  without  a  sigh,  and  a  wish  that  it  had  been  right 
for  her  to  enjoy  the  same  privilege. 

It  was  now  December,  cold  and  bleak.  Rambles  in  the  woods, 
musings  along  the  bank  of  the  quiet  stream,  horseback  rides, 
were  all  over  now,  and  Eva,  shut  in  from  all  these  pleasures,  tried 
to  find  her  accustomed  refuge  in  the  library.  But  books  were  no 
longer  the  same  companions  that  they  had  once  been,  and  even 
the  most  exciting  romance  failed  now  to  fix  her  attention.  The 
moment  that  she  took  a  book  in  her  hand  she  began  to  think. 
Next  to  Willie's  own  room,  there  was  no  place  about  the  house 
so  intimately  associated  with  the  thought  of  him  as  was  the 
library.  The  sofa  had  been  his  accustomed  place  from  the  time 
that  he  could  leave  his  room,  and  the  little  chair  beside  it  was 


CAMERON    HALL.  305 

tacitly  surrendered  to  her  as  specially  her  own.  If  she  went  to 
the  bookcase  for  a  book,  she  involuntarily  took  down  one  which 
she  had  read  to  him,  and  when  she  opened  it,  some  familiar  pas- 
sage, with  his  commentary  upon  it,  would  at  once  set  her  to 
dreaming  of  the  pleasant  past.  There  was  something  in  the 
very  aspect  of  the  room  that  spoke  to  her  heart  of  Willie ;  and 
while  for  that  very  reason  she  preferred  staying  there  to  any 
other  part  of  the  house,  still  she  was  accustomed  to  say  that 
^'she  ought  never  to  go  into  the  library,  it  made  her  lazy,  for 
while  she  was  there  she  never  did  anything  but  think." 

The  sisters  were  sitting  there  together  one  cold  morning,  be- 
fore a  blazing  fire.  Of  late  Julia  had  not  read  so  much  as  for- 
merly, her  experience  being  the  same  as  Eva's,  that  as  soon  as 
she  took  a  book  she  began  to  think.  So  she  had  busied  herself 
more  than  ever  with  the  active  duties  of  housekeeping.  The 
room  was  very  quiet.  Julia  was  sewing  rapidly,  Eva  was  sitting 
with  a  book  in  her  hand  looking  dreamily  into  the  fire,  and  Carlo 
was  stretched  on  the  rug  at  her  feet.  Mr.  Cameron  usually  rode 
into  town  in  the  morning,  and  brought  the  letters  and  papers 
with  him  on  his  return. 

Eva  looked  up  at  the  clock,  and  yawning  wearily,  said  :  "Almost 
twelve  o'clock!  I  wonder  what  can  keep  papa  so  long  this  morn- 
ing I  I  do  wish  that  he  would  come  along  with  my  letter.  I  can- 
not wait  much  longer." 

"  How  long  have  you  waited,  Eva  ?" 

"A  whole  hour,  sister.  Papa  is  generally  at  home  by  eleven 
o'clock." 

"  Does  it  seem  so  hard,  Eva,"  said  Julia,  with  a  sad  smile,  **to 
wait  one  hour  for  an  expected  letter  ?  Suppose  that  it  should 
not  come  at  all." 

"  That  is  simply  impossible." 

"  Not  by  any  means,  Eva.  Many  things  might  happen  to  pre- 
vent its  being  written,  or  its  safe  arrival.  Suppose  now  that 
papa  should  come  without  it,  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"  I  suppose,  sister,  that  I  would  be  silly  enough  to  cry,  for  that 
is  usually  the  first  thing  that  I  do  when  I  am  troubled.  But,  in- 
deed, if  I  do  not  get  my  letter,  I  shall  be  not  only  disappointed, 
but  anxious  too,  for  I  know  that  Willie  will  not  fail  to  write  if  it 
is  possible." 

"  Do  you  always  expect  a  daily  letter  from  Willie,  Eva  ?" 

'*  No ;  not  when  he  goes  into  service  again,  for  Walter  does 
not  write  oftener  than  once  a  week ;  but  that  is  in  the  future. 
For  the  present,  I  expect  a  letter  every  day ;  and  if  I  don't  get 
it  I  shall  be  disappointed,  distressed,  and  provoked." 

"  How  do  you  think  that  you  would  get  along  for  weeks  and 

26*    '' 


306  CAMERON    HALL. 

months  without  ever  receiving  a  line  from  him,  and  without  ever 
hearing  from  him  directly  ?" 

"Oh,  sister!"  she  exclaimed,  "what  questions  you  do  ask! 
Indeed,  I  don't  know  how  I  should  get  along  under  such  circum- 
stances, for  I  don't,  like  you,  try  to  decide  what  I  should  do  in 
impossible  emergencies." 

"Not  so  impossible  after  all,  Eva!  If  the  Federals  should 
occupy  this  place,  you  may  possibly  not  hear  from  Walter  or 
Willie  while  they  stay;  and  even  if  you  do,  the  information 
and  the  letters  will  be  both  unsatisfactory  and  received  at  long 
intervals." 

"Oh,  sister!"  she  said,  "you  cannot  be  in  earnest !" 

"  Indeed,  I  am.  All  communication  between  us  and  our  army 
will  then  be  cut  off." 

"  That  would  be  the  worst  trouble  of  all !  Never  to  hear  from 
Walter  or  Willie  !  Sister,  how  could  we  bear  it  ?  what  should 
we  do  ?" 

"  We  should  try  and  submit  to  it  as  patiently  and  uncomplain- 
ingly as  we  could,  and  accept  it  as  one  of  the  many  great  priva- 
tions that  the  war  entails  upon  us." 

"  You,  perhaps,  can  do  this,  for  you  are  naturally  quiet  and 
patient;  but  for  me  it  would  be  quite  impossible.  If  I  love  any- 
body, I  love  with  my  whole  heart;  and  to  be  separated  from  my 
friends,  to  know  that  they  are  always  in  danger,  that  they  may 
be  at  any  moment  suffering  or  even  dying,  and  yet  I  cannot  hear 
it,  and  may  not  know  it  for  weeks,  perhaps  months  afterward, 
— indeed,  sister,  I  could  not  bear  this  long,  it  would  soon  kill 
me." 

"  No,  Eva,  you  would  probably  survive  it,  as  many  have  done 
and  are  doing  now,  whose  hearts  are  just  as  warm  and  loving  as 
yours.  I  am  afraid  that  bitter  experience  will  teach  us  many 
lessons  during  this  war,  which  now  it  seems  impossible  to 
learn." 

"But  you  know,  sister,  that  trouble  affects  people  differently, 
and  some  much  more  than  others.  You  and  I  for  instance 
would  be  differently  affected  by  the  very  same  trouble.  You 
would  bear  it  quietly,  patiently,  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  while 
I  would  make  myself  sick  crying." 

"  I  might,  and  most  probably  would,  take  it  quietly,  Eva ;  but 
by  no  means  as  a  matter  of  course.  My  experience  and  obser- 
vation both  teach  me  that  quiet  people  suffer  most,  for  the  im- 
pulsive relieve  themselves  by  the  very  violence  of  their  grief." 

"  That  may  be,  but  impulsive  people  have  generally  most  ties 
to  break,  and  therefore  are  more  frequently  called  upon  to  suffer. 
They,  much  oftener  than  quiet  persons,  form  warm  friendships 


CAMERON    HALL.  307 

and  ardent  attachments  on  slender  foundations.  Look  at  us.  I 
learn  to  love  strangers,  if  they  are  lovable,  a  great  deal  sooner 
than  you  do.  Here  is  Willie,  who  came  to  us  a  few  months  ago 
a  perfect  stranger.  In  that  short  time  I  have  learned  to  love 
him  almost  like  a  brother,  and  it  distressed  me  almost  as  much 
to  give  him  up  as  it  did  to  give  up  Walter,  while,  on  the  con- 
trary, you  bore  his  departure  with  the  utmost  composure." 

"  I  am  very  much  attached  to  Willie,"  answered  Julia,  quietly. 
"  My  love  for  him  cannot  be  better  described  than  to  call  it  sis- 
terly." 

"And  yet,  you  are  not  half  so  much  grieved  to  give  him  up  as 
I  am.  It  was  the  same  case  too  with  Dr.  Beaufort,  who  was 
essentially  much  more  your  friend  than  mine.  I  was  truly  dis- 
tressed when  I  saw  him  go  off  to  the  army,  but  you  did  not  seem 
to  mind  it." 

Julia's  lip  quivered  ;  but  she  sewed  on,  and  made  no  reply. 
Eva,  who  was  still  watching  for  her  father,  now  saw  him  coming 
in  the  gate,  and  springing  up,  she  ran  to  meet  him,  sure  of  get- 
ting the  expected  letter. 

A  few  silent  tears  dropped  on  Julia's  work,  as  she  thought : 
"  'Did  not  seem  to  mind  it !'  Ah,  Eva,  how  little  do  you  or  any- 
body else  know  how  a  quiet  heart  may  suffer  all  alone  !  Little 
do  you  dream  what  a  burden  I  have  borne  for  weary  months,  and 
expect  to  bear  through  a  weary  life  !" 

Eva  now  came  bounding  in  with  an  open  letter,  long  and 
closely  written,  and  sat  down  by  the  sofa  in  her  little  chair,  the 
place  where  she  always  read  Willie's  letters. 

"  Xo  letter  from  Walter,  daughter,"  Mr.  Cameron  said,  in  an- 
swer to  Julia's  inquiring  look. 

"  Is  there  any  news  in  town,  papa  ?" 

"  Nothing  of  interest  from  the  army.  The  town  is  full  of 
rumors  again,  and  the  community  quite  excited  by  the  reported 
approach  of  a  Yankee  raiding  party.  I  could  not,  however,  hear 
anything  that  seemed  reliable,  and  so  it  really  made  very  little 
impression  upon  me." 

"Yes,"  said  Julia,  "we  have  been  so  often  unnecessarily 
alarmed,  that  these  rumors  now  do  not  even  create  anxiety.  But, 
papa,  what  is  the  object  of  these  raiding  parties  ?" 

"  It  is,  my  daughter,  to  inflict  as  much  injury  as  possible  in  a 
little  time ;  to  destroy  public  and  private  property,  government 
stores,  and,  in  short,  to  do  as  much  damage  generally  as  they 
can." 

"  But  what  would  be  the  object  of  coming  to  so  small  a  place 
as  Hopedale  ?  There  are  no  government  stores  here,  and  but 
very  little  public  property." 


308  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  The  railroad  is  used  in  government  service,  and  has  proved 
very  useful  in  transporting  troops  and  army  supplies.  The 
country  around  is  very  ferule  and  was  careful ly  cultivated  this 
year,  and  it  is  known  that  we  have  gathered  in  most  abundant 
harvests.  You  have  no  idea,  Julia,  how  much  food  for  man 
and  beast  is  stored  away  in  the  hundreds  of  barns  in  this  county 
alone." 

"  But,  papa,  surely  they  cannot  intend  to  destroy  food  1  our 
subsistence,  our  life !" 

"That,  my  daughter,  is  their  principal  object,  to  destroy  as 
mHch  of  what  sustains  life,  and  to  reduce  the  rebels,  as  they  call 
us,  as  nearly  to  starvation  as  possible.  If  they  come,  they  will 
desolate  the  country  like  the  locusts  of  Egypt.  But  while  the 
destruction  of  food  and  government  property  is  their  chief  aim, 
there  are  other  things  which  they  will  be  careful  not  to  neglect. 
Searching  and  pillaging  houses,  and  sometimes  even  burning 
them;  insulting  and  terrifying  women  and  children,  forcing  the 
surrender  of  money  and  valuables  by  the  irresistible  argument  of 
a  loaded  pistol, — these  are  some  of  the  pleasant  anticipations  con- 
nected with  a  raiding  party.  Not  a  very  agreeable  picture,  is  it, 
daughter  ?" 

"No,  indeed,  sir,"  answered  Julia,  thoughtfully.  "  If  such  are 
to  be  the  proceedings,  how  glad  I  am  that  we  are  not  in  town  ! 
Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  for  Grace  and  Agnes  to  come 
out  to  the  Hall  for  protection  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  if  I  were  only  sure  that  these  rumors  were 
true,  I  would  immediately  send  you  and  Eva  to  town,  for  these 
raiders  are  always  more  lawless  and  outrageous  in  the  country 
than  they  are  in  towns.  The  thought  of  you  causes  me  far  more 
anxiety  than  everything  else.  I  could  give  up  furniture,  carriage, 
horses,  even  house  and " 

"Oh,  papa!"  she  exclaimed,  "not  our  horses!  not  Rebel  and 
Dixie  I  our  beautiful  horses  !" 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,  not  only  your  beautiful  riding  horses  to 
which  you  are  so  much  attached,  but  every  valuable  horse  and 
mule  on  the  plantation  will  be  taken  away.  Those  that  they  do 
not  want  themselves  they  will  take  off  to  the  army.  I  am  sorry, 
my  daughter,  to  have  to  tell  you  these  things.  I  do  not  wish  to 
frighten  you,  but  to  prepare  you." 

"  Yes,  papa,  I  would  rather  know  it  now.  I  do  not  like  to  be 
taken  by  surprise,  for  then  I  never  know  exactly  how  to  act." 

"  The  only  way  to  act  in  all  such  cases,  Julia,  is  to  be  perfectly 
quiet,  and  to  do  or  say  nothing  to  exasperate.  You  cannot  stop 
the  work  of  destruction,  but  you  may  perhaps  aggravate  it." 

"  It  would  be  very  hard,  papa,  to  stand  by  and  witness  in  si- 


CAMERON    HALL.  309 

lence  the  desolation  of  your  home  by  Yankee  ruffians.     I  doubt 
very  much  whether  I  could  do  it." 

"  Yes,  Julia,  it  is  hard  enough,  perhaps  almost  impossible  for 
some  natures ;  but,  believe  me,  it  is  the  wisest  plan.  You  could 
do  it,  for  you  can  control  yourself,  and  you  would  do  it  if  I 
should  request  it  for  my  sake,  as  well  as  your  own.  Remember, 
my  daughter,"  he  added,  seriously,  "I  tell  you  now,  that  if  you 
should  ever  be  placed  in  these  circumstances,  you  must  be  quiet; 
otherwise,  you  might  endanger  your  father  as  well  as  yourself." 

"  That,  indeed,  papa,"  she  answered,  earnestly,  *'  is  argument 
enough  to  enforce  silence.     You  can  trust  me  now." 

"  I  know  it,  Julia ;  but  as  to  Eva,  I  could  not  trust  her,  for  I 
know  that  she  would  not  hold  her  tongue." 

"  Hold  my  tongue  when,  papa  ?"  inquired  Eva,  looking  up  as 
she  folded  her  letter  and  gave  it  to  her  sister.  "  What  are  you 
talking  about  ?" 

Her  father  explained,  and  she  said  : 

"  No,  indeed,  I  could  never  hold  my  tongue  and  see  my  home 
sacked  and  plundered  by  brutal  soldiers  I  I  would  have  to  speak 
once,  and  tell  them  what  I  thought  of  them,  at  the  risk  of  making 
acquaintance  with  the  bayonet." 

''And  I  shall  see  to  it,  Eva,"  replied  her  father,  "that  you  are 
never  tempted.  Whenever  the  time  comes,  I  shall  never  leave  the 
house,  and  if  it  is  searched,  I  myself  will  be  master  of  cere- 
monies." 

"Papa,"  said  Julia,  "it  must  be  much  harder  for  a  man  than 
for  a  woman  to  bear  such  things  as  these  in  silence.  You  have 
been  accustomed  all  your  life  to  protect  yourself  and  your  house- 
hold, and  I  believe  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  you  to  submit 
to  such  indignity,  and  see  your  house  plundered  before  your  eyes 
without  making  an  effort  to  defend  it.  And  since  any  such 
effort  might  result  in  something  dreadful,  suppose  that  you  let  me 
take  your  place,  and  if  the  house  should  be  searched,  let  me  ac- 
company them  through  it.  I  know  that  I  could  now  see  them 
do  anything  without  a  word  of  complaint,  for  the  thought  of 
endangering  you  would  enable  me  to  resist  any  temptation  to 
speak.     Will  you,  papa  ?" 

"  Not  for  the  world,  Julia  1  It  is  no  woman's  business,  especi- 
ally so  young  a  one  as  you  are.  It  is  my  duty  to  guard  my 
daughters  if  I  cannot  protect  my  property,  and  I  shall  at  least 
try  to  do  so.  And  now,  girls,  remernJber,  it  ia^not  only  my  re- 
quest, but  my  positive  command,  that  if  a  raiding  party  should 
ever  come  to  the  Hall,  you  shall,  both  of  you,  keep  out  of  sight, 
and  let  me  attend  to  them  " 

He  left  the  room,  and  Eva  exclaimed,  impatiently ; 


310  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  No  peace  or  quiet  of  our  lives  I  Before  we  are  quite  settled 
down  from  one  alarm  we  are  stirred  up  by  another,  and  all  for 
nothing,  too  !  The  Yankees  have  no  idea  of  coming  here  ;  they 
have  more  important  work  elsewhere." 

"I  trust  that  you  are  right,  Eva,"  answered  her  sister;  "but 
how  is  this  ?     I  thought  that  the  complaint  all  along  had  been 
that  our  life  was  too  monotonous  and  quiet ;  and  now,  as  soon  as 
'  the  excitement  comes,  you  begin  to  complain  of  that !" 

"  It  is  not  excitement  that  I  object  to ;  it  is  the  particular 
kind  that  I  do  not  like.  Nobody  likes  the  excitement  of  fear. 
I  am  sick  and  tired  of  this  miserable  war  1  It  takes  away  all  the 
pleasure  of  life.  Here  Willie  is  writing  so  hopefully  of  his  an- 
ticipated visit  in  a  fortnight,  and  before  I  finish  reading  the  letter, 
I  hear  of  a  Yankee  raid,  which  will,  of  course,  put  an  end  to  his 
coming  altogether." 

"Which  will,"  replied  Julia,  "probably  be  the  least  dreadful 
result  to  be  apprehended.  If  papa's  statement  of  their  general 
mode  of  procedure  be  correct,  the  loss  of  Willie's  visit,  however 
great  a  disappointment  ordinarily,  will  now  scarcely  be  thought 
of.  Eva,  what  will  you  do  when  you  see  a  Y^'ankee  mount  Dixie 
and  ride  off?" 

"  What !"  she  exclaimed,  Jumping  up,  "  who  says  that  any  of 
them  would  dare  do  such  a  thing?" 

"  Dare,  child  !"  repeated  Julia.  "  In  war,  people  dare  to  do  any- 
thing. But  papa  says  that  the  stables  will  be  among  the  first 
places  that  they  will  visit,  and  that  not  only  Rebel  and  Dixie,  but 
all  the  other  horses  there,  and  all  the  plantation  mules  and  horses 
besides,  will  be  taken." 

"  Well,  I  solemnly  declare  that  whatever  you  and  papa  do,  I 
will  never  stand  by  and  see  them  take  Dixie  without  speaking  a 
word  upon  the  subject." 

"Not  after  what  papa  said  just  now,  Eva?" 

"Yes,  sister,  even  after  what  he  said  just  now;  for  if  I  were  to 
see  a  Yankee  thief  mount  Dixie,  I  could  no  more  help  talking 
than  I  could  help  breathing." 

"  Then,  Eva,  I  think  papa  will  show  his  wisdom  by  shutting 
you  up  where  you  can  neither  see,  hear,  nor  talk.  For  myself,  I 
intend  to  do  just  what  he  says.  Poor  papa  !  in  a  case  like  this 
he  would  have  enough  to  bear,  and  I  would  try  very  hard  not  to 
add  to  his  burden." 

"  Yery  well,  sister,  you  can  do  it,  for  you  can  control  yourself, 
but  for  me  it  would  be  simply  impossible." 

That  night,  when  her  father  and  Eva  were  asleep,  Julia  went 
out  and  called  Uncle  Billy,  the  confidential  servant  of  the  Hall, 
into  the  library.     She  told  him  of  the  various  rumors,  and  asked 


CAMERON    HALL.  311 

him  if  there  was  no  place  about  the  plantation  where  he  could 
conceal  the  riding  horses,  at  least  for  a  few  days.  He  thought 
that  there  was,  and  she  told  him  that  as  they  did  not  know  at  what 
moment  the  enemy  might  come,  she  thought  it  would  be  best  at 
once,  in  the  quiet  and  darkness  of  the  night,  to  secrete  them  as 
best  he  could,  and  she  urged  him  to  tell  nobody,  not  even  her 
father  or  herself,  where  they  were.  The  old  man  went  off  to 
obey,  and  then  she  put  away,  in  what  she  supposed  a  safe  place, 
her  mother's  silver  tea-service.  Some  other  valuables  she  also 
concealed,  and  then,  late  at  night,  she  went  to  bed,  but  not  to 
sleep.  Such  employment  was  new  to  her,  and  there  was  an  ex- 
citement about  it  which  effectually  put  sleep  to  flight,  and  she 
thought  all  night  of  what  she  would  do  in  an  emergency,  and 
tried  to  calm  her  fears  and  look  steadily  and  bravely  at  what  was 
probably  before  her. 

The  next  morning,  while  they  were  at  the  breakfast-table,  Mr. 
Cameron  received  a  note  from  one  of  his  neighbors,  requesting 
him  to  come  and  see  him  on  urgent  business.  As  he  mounted  his 
horse,  he  said : 

"  Before  I  return,  girls,  I  will  go  to  town  and  hear  the  morning 
rumors.  I  will  not  be  gone  long,  however,  and,"  he  added,  with 
a  smile,  "  I  hope  to  be  able  to  report  that  this,  like  all  the  other 
threatened  invasions,  has  vanished  into  thin  air." 

He  had  been  gone  about  an  hour.  Eva  was  in  the  library 
writing  to  Willie,  and  Julia  was  busy  with  her  morning  duties, 
when  all  at  once  Mammy  Nancy  burst  into  the  room,  the  picture 
of  terror. 

"  Lord  have  mercy.  Miss  Julia  I  Run  to  the  window  and  look 
down  the  road  at  the  soldiers  1  Who  is  they  ?  Is  they  Yankees  ? 
Whar  is  they  gwine  ?     What  is  they  gwine  to  do  to  us  ?" 

Julia  sprang  to  the  window,  and  her  heart  leaped  into  her 
throat  when  she  saw  a  squad  of  soldiers  in  Federal  uniform 
halted  at  the  lawn  gate.  They  stopped  a  few  minutes,  and  seemed 
to  be  talking  earnestly,  and  pointing  in  several  directions  ;  then  a 
party  of  ten  rode  into  the  lawn,  and  the  others  went  up  the  road. 

Julia  rushed  to  the  hall  door,  locked  and  barred  it.  Then 
she  ran  to  the  library,  and  although  she  tried  hard  to  be  calm, 
still  Eva  was  greatly  startled  by  the  unnatural  tone  of  voice  which 
pronounced  her  name.  She  turned  quickly  round,  and  seeing  her 
sister's  pale  face  and  agitated  manner,  she  dropped  her  pen,  ex- 
claiming : 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  I  tell  me,  sister,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Eva,"  she  answered,  hurriedly,  and  striving  so  hard  to  be 
calm  that  she  seemed  almost  stern,  **  Eva,  the  Yankees  are  here 
now,  coming  up  to  the  house.     Papa  is  gone,  and  we  must  see 


312  CAMERON     HALL. 

them.     Promise  me  that  you  will  strictly  obey  him  and  not  speak 
one  word  to  them." 

Poor  Eva  looked  ready  to  faint,  and  did  not  answer.  A  vio- 
lent jerk  at  the  bell  now  announced  the  unwelcome  arrival,  and 
at  the  same  instant  three  horsemen  passed  the  window  on  their 
way  to  the  kitchen. 

"Promise  me,  Eva." 

"I  will  try,  sister." 

-Another  violent  jerk  of  the  bell,  and  a  thundering  knock  at 
the  door,  bade  Julia  hasten,  and  she  ran  and  opened  it  herself. 
A  lieutenant  was  the  spokesman. 

"This  is  the  residence  of  Mr.  Henry  Cameron,  I  believe." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Is  he  at  home  ?" 

"No,  sir,  there  is  no  one  at  home  except  his  two  daughters, 
myself  and  a  younger  sister." 

"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  especially  since  you  are  alone;  but 
I  have  been  ordered  to  come  here  and  search  for  arms,  and  a  rebel 
soldier  who  is  or  has  been  here  within  the  past  day  or  two." 

Julia  said  nothing  in  reply  about  arms,  for  she  knew  that  her 
father  had  a  very  valuable  pair  of  revolvers  which  he  would  be 
most  unwilling  to  lose,  but  she  answered  : 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,  that  there  is  no  Confederate  soldier  here, 
nor  has  been  within  a  day  or  two." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not  so  recently  as  that;  but  you  have  had  one 
here." 

"  Yes,  sir,  one  who  was  wounded  at  Manassas  ;  but  he  left  us 
more  than  a  week  ago.  A  search  for  soldiers  in  this  house  would 
not  repay  you  for  the  trouble,  for  I  assure  you  that  you  would 
neither  find  them  nor  anything  belonging  to  them." 

"Nevertheless,  I  am  ordered  to  search,  and  a  soldier,  you  know, 
must  obey  orders.  Boys,  two  of  you  come  with  me  into  the 
house,  the  rest  of  you  guard  it,  so  that  no  one  escapes." 

Julia  felt  somewhat  relieved  at  the  idea  of  looking  for  soldiers, 
for  she  thought  that  this  would  not  require  a  minute  search,  and 
that  they  would  soon  be  satisfied.  She  had  not  yet  learned  that 
this  was  the  common  pretext  on  which  every  house  was  entered. 
As  her  father  was  not  there,  she  thought  it  her  duty  to  go  with 
them,  and,  afraid  to  go  alone,  she  summoned  Mammy  Nancy  and 
Eva  to  accompany  her.  Seizing  Eva  by  the  arm,  she  whispered, 
hurriedly : 

"  Remember,  now,  not  one  word  I" 

They  were  soon  satisfied  in  the  parlor  and  library,  but  when 
they  came  to  the  dining-room,  the  examination  was  more  minute. 
By  this  time  Eva's  fears  were  somewhat  calmed,  but  her  indigna- 


CAMERON    HALL.  313' 

tion  was  rapidly  rising  to  fever-heat.  As  she  saw  some  silver 
spoons  and  forks  find  their  way  into  the  lieutenant's  pocket,  she 
exclaimed,  hastily : 

"  Those  are  not  soldiers  I     I  thought " 

A  pressure  upon  her  arm,  so  tight  as  to  be  painful,  admonished 
her,  and  she  stopped  short. 

The  search  proceeded,  and  presently  they  went  up  stairs.  In 
Mr.  Cameron's  room  nothing  escaped.  Wardrobe,  bureau-drawers, 
private  secretary,  all  were  pulled  to  pieces,  and  their  contents 
thrown  upon  the  floor  in  wild  confusion.  Julia  looked  on  in 
silent  anxiety,  fearing  every  moment  that  the  pistols  would  be 
found ;  but  they  were  not  forthcoming.  The  next  room  that 
they  entered  was  Willie's,  and  Eva  found  it  doubly  hard  to  con- 
trol herself  here. 

"  This,  ladies,  I  believe,"  said  the  lieutenant,  walking  in,  "  is 
the  room  that  was  occupied  by  the  rebel  soldier.  We  must 
make  a  thorough  search  here." 

Eva's  writing-desk,  containing  Willie's  letters,  was  upon  the 
table,  and  while  the  others  were  busy  with  drawers  and  trunks, 
the  officer  deliberately  seated  himself  to  the  examination  of  the 
desk. 

Julia  just  succeeded  in  arresting  the  exclamation  bursting  from 
Eva's  lips. 

"Where  is  the  key  of  this  desk,  ladies?"  he  asked,  as  he  tried 
it,  and  found  it  locked. 

"  Give  him  the  key,  Eva,"  Julia  whispered,  "  or  he  will  break 
it  open." 

"  Let  him  do  it,  then  !"  replied  the  indignant  Eva. 

With  a  bland  smile,  the  officer  said : 

"  Don't  trouble  yourselves,  ladies,  about  the  key ;  I  do  not 
need  it." 

In  an  instant  the  lock  was  forced,  and  the  desk  was  open. 

"  Lord  help  us !"  exclaimed  Mammy  Nancy,  "  if  he  ain't  done 
broke  the  child's  box  open !" 

Eva  stood  by  with  flashing  eyes  and  trembling  limbs,  and  feel- 
ing that  her  heart  would  burst  if  she  had  to  bear  this  much 
longer  in  silence.  Julia  watched  her  with  the  greatest  anxiety, 
fearing  every  moment  lest  she  should  break  through  all  restraint, 
and  satisfied,  from  the  appearance  and  manner  of  the  man  in 
whose  power  they  were,  that  her  father's  apprehensions  had  not 
been  exaggerated,  nor  his  warning  unnecessary. 

One  by  one,  Willie's  letters  were  taken  out,  and  the  superscrip- 
tion and  postmark  examined;  but  they  were  not  opened,  and  Eva 
drew  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  saw  them  laid  down  upon  the  table. 
As  if  to  prolong  her  torture,  the  lieutenant  now  proceeded  de- 

27 


314  CAMERON    HALL. 

liberately  to  remove  all  the  contents  of  the  desk;  and  even  the 
blank  paper,  envelopes,  and  pens  were  subjected  to  a  scrutinizing 
gaze  before  they  were  laid  aside. 

"  Rebel  stamps  I"  he  said,  scornfully,  as  Re  held  them  up. 
"  Pity  that  they  could  not  JBnd  a  better  face  to  put  on  them  than 
that  of  the  archtraitor  Jeff!" 

There  was  no  reply.  One  by  one  each  cover  of  the  various 
little  compartments  was  removed,  and  they  were  peered  into  with 
an  insulting  curiosity  that  was  absolutely  intolerable.  At  last 
he  seemed  satisfied,  and  began  slowly  to  restore  the  contents  to 
the  desk. 

Eva  could  bear  no  more.  She  felt  that  she  would  die  if  she 
did  not  speak,  and  so,  resolutely  shutting  her  eyes  to  her  sister's 
beseeching  and  warning  face,  she  exclaimed,  trembling  with 
passion : 

"Surely,  sir,  you  have  not  yet  finished  searching  a  lady's  writ- 
ing-desk for  arms  and  soldiers  !  There  is  still  one  litile  com- 
partment, about  as  large  as  your  finger-nail,  which  you  have  not 
opened.  Do  look  into  it;  perhaps  you  will  find  there  a  rebel 
lieutenant-general,  two  brigadiers,  and  a  columbiad  !" 

The  scorn  and  contempt  which  flashed  from  her  eyes  were  be- 
yond the  power  of  words  to  expreiss,  and  Julia  saw  with  an 
agony  of  fear  that  they  had  aroused  all  the  venom  of  their  foe, 
who  replied: 

"  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  my  search  of  your  writing-desk, 
Miss;  but  since  you  advise  me  to  examine  further,  I  will  look 
into  these  letters.  I  scarcely  expect  to  find  in  them  either  a 
brigadier  or  a  columbiad,  but  it  may  be  that  I  will  find  treason :" 
and  he  proceeded  quietly  to  the  perusal  of  Willie's  long  and 
closely  written  pages. 

The  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs  was  now  heard,  a  rapid,  de- 
termined stride  was  upon  the  stairs,  and  in  another  moment  Mr. 
Cameron  was  in  the  room.  The  insolent  air  of  the  officer,  Julia's 
anxious  face,  Eva's  defiant  expression,  and  Mammy  Nancy's  help- 
less fright,  were  all  comprehended  at  a  glance. 

Mr.  Cameron  felt  that  he  was  too  much  excited  to  trust  him- 
self to  speak  at  all,  and  he  stood  for  a  few  moments  biting  his 
lips  and  glaring  in  silent  rage  upon  the  scene  before  him.  For 
once  he  felt  that  his  daughters  were  a  clog  and  fetter  to  him,  for 
once  the  kindly  feelings  of  his  nature  were  turned  into  gall  and  a 
thirst  for  blood ;  and  as  he  stood  there,  the  owner  of  the  mansion, 
the  father  of  his  young  daughters,  the  protector  of  his  dependents, 
bound  hand  and  foot,  unable  to  lift  a  finger  to  defend  them  against 
insult  and  outrage,  he  ground  his  teeth  in  impotent  rage,  and  felt 
that  if  those  daughters  were  only  out  of  the  way,  he  would  at  any 


CAMERON    HALL.  .  315 

and  all  hazards  acquaint  one  Yankee  marauder,  at  least,  with  the 
lead  of  that  revolver  which  his  hand  now  instinctively  grasped. 
But  even  when  most  excited,  Mr.  Cameron's  judgment  was  never 
obscured  by  blind  passion.  He  determined  that  he  would  not 
speak  until  he  had  had  time  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  control  his 
feelings,  and  a  moment's  reflection  convinced  him  that,  for  the 
sake  of  his  helpless  daughters,  and  to  save  them  from  something 
worse  than  they  had  yet  endured,  he  must  curb  and  restrain 
himself. 

Presently  he  said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Come,  my  daughters,  this  is  no  place  for  you." 

He  took  a  hand  of  each  and  led  them  down  stairs  into  the 
library,  and  bade  them  lock  themselves  in. 

"Papa,"  pleaded  Eva,  clinging  to  his  arm,  please  to  get  my 
letters  away  from  that  Yankee.  Don't  let  him  take  them  off 
with  him." 

"Be  quiet,  Eva,"  said  Mr.  Cameron  almost  sternly;  "be  quiet, 
my  daughter  !" 

He  saw  the  tears  gather  in  her  eyes,  and  stroking  her  hair, 
added,  kindly:  "  I  will  get  them  if  I  can,  my  daughter;  but  you 
know  that  your  father  is  powerless  now." 

So  saying,  he  closed  the  door  and  returned  up  stairs  to  watch 
the  work  of  desolation. 

There  was  no  longer  any  need  of  restraint,  and  throwing  her- 
self upon  the  sofa,  Eva's  overcharged  feelings  burst  forth  in  pas- 
sionate tears. 

"  I  am  a  woman,"  she  sobbed,  "  and  I  cannot  defend  myself, 
and-none  but  a  sneaking  coward  would  thus  insult  the  defense- 
less ;  but  if  I  had  been  a  man,  that  Yankee  would  never  have 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  first  page  of  that  letter  without  a  bullet 
through  his  head,  even  if  every  bayonet  in  this  yard  had  pierced 
my  body  the  next  minute  !" 

"Oh,  Eva,  Eva!"  exclaimed  Julia,  "you  must  not  talk  so. 
You  are  in  a  passion  now,  and  don't  know  what  you  are  saying. 
Believe  me,  papa  is  right ;  dignified  silence  is  the  only  hope  of 
safety." 

"  Dignified    silence,   indeed  I"    she    exclaimed,    passionately, 
""  when  an  insulting  Yankee  is  reading,  before  my  eyes,  letters  as 
sacred  as  tlie  thoughts  and  feelings  of  my  own  heart !     I  cannot 
keep  silence ;   I  must  talk ;   and  I  should  have  bursted  with  rage  ^ 
just  now,  if  I  had  not  said  what  I  did  to  him  about  that  desk." 

"  No,  you  would  not,  Eva ;  and  the  effort  to  restrain  yourself, 
however  great,  would  have  been  amply  repaid ;  for  if  you  had 
not  said  anything,  your  letters  would  have  been  returned  to  the 
writing-desk  unread." 


316  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Never,  sister  I  Yankee  curiosity  could  not  have  resisted 
such  an  opportunity  of  pryiug  into  private  affairs.  No,  he  in- 
tended from  the  first  to  read  them,  but  he  only  wanted  to  torture 
me  a  little  more  by  awakening  hopes  of  release,  which  he  intended 
to  disappoint." 

''You  are  severe  upon  the  Yankees,  Eva,"  said  Julia,  with  a 
quiet  smile  at  her  sister's  uncontrollable  rage.  "  I  never  saw  you 
in  such  a  passion  before  in  all  your  life." 

"  I  have  had  enough  to  provoke  a " 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  piercing  shriek,  and  the  cry  of  "  fire  ! 
fire  1"  was  taken  up  and  repeated  by  terrified  voices.  Julia  ran 
to  one  window  and  Eva  to  another,  and  the  latter>  exclaimed  : 
"  Oh,  sister  !  it  is  the  barns.     They  have  fired  the  barns  !" 

From  the  window  where  they  stood,  they  watched  the  long, 
black,  curling  smoke,  that  wound  up  from  the  roofs  of  the  several 
granaries  where  Mr.  Cameron  had  stowed  away  the  abundant 
harvests  of  his  fields.  Presently  a  shaft  of  dark,  lurid  fire  leaped 
high  into  the  air,  and  burst  into  a  sheet  of  flame,  which  speedily 
wrapped  all  the  buildings  in  one  grand  conflagration.  Mr.  Cam- 
eron stood  upon  the  veranda,  and  with  folded  arms  and  a  clouded 
brow  watched  the  rapid  destruction,  and  groaned  in  spirit  as 
he  thought  of  the  numbers  around  him  who  were  dependent  upon 
those  barns  for  the  food  to  sustain  life.  Crash  after  crash  was 
heard,  as  roofs,  walls,  and  blazing  rafters  tumbled  in,  and  blended 
with  charred  and  burning  masses  of  corn,  wheat,  and  rye,  in  one 
smoking  ruin. 

"Now,  boys,  for  the  smoke-house  !"  was  the  next  cry,  and  they 
proceeded  forthwith  to  that  department. 

"Bring  a  fire-brand,  Jim  I"  shouted  one  of  the  soldiers  to 
another,  who  was  lingering  behind  at  the  barns. 

"No,  boys,"  called  out  the  lieutenant,  "no  more  burning  I 
The  smoke-house  is  too  near  the  dwelling,  and  there  is  no  use  in 
burning  that  now.  Bring  the  meat  out  and  throw  it  in  a  pile  in 
the  yard,  and  then  set  fire  to  it." 

The  house  was  rapidly  emptied,  and  the  meat,  which  Mr. 
Cameron  had  hoped  would  supply  his  plantation  for  two  years, 
was  soon  thrown  in  a  pile  and  awaited  the  torch. 

All  a  Southern  negro's  idea  of  comfort  and  abundance  is  em- 
bodied in  the  smoke-house ;  and  while  the  servants  hj^d  stood  by 
in  silent  dismay,  and  watched  the  burning  of  the  corn  that  was  to 
'make  their  bread,  they  could  not  see  the  meat  consumed  without 
expostulation  or  remonstrance. 

"  Lord  help  us,  Mister  I"  exclaimed  Mammy  Nancy,  "  'taint 
possible  that  you  is  gwine  to  burn  up  all  that  meat  I  what  is  we 
gwine  to  live  on  ?" 


9         CAMERON    HALL.  317 

"  That  is  none  of  my  business,  old  lady  !"  was  the  reply. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  sense  of  burnin'  it  up  ?  It  won't  do  you  no 
good  if  it's  burnt  up." 

"  No  ;  but  then  it  can't  do  the  rebels  any  good  either." 

"  Well,  Mister,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  jest  let  me  jerk  up  a  piece 
or  two  before  you  put  that  fire  to  it." 

"  If  you  want  it  for  yourself,  I  have  no  objection  ;  but  yoa 
shan't  save  any  for  your  master,  as  he  calls  himself.  Remember, 
old  woman  !  I  am  coming  back  here  before  long,  and  if  I  find 
that  you  have  saved  it  for  him,  I  will  put  this  bayonet  right 
through  you." 

As  he  said  this,  he  touched  her  hand  with  the  point  of  his 
bayonet,  and  as  she  felt  the  cold  steel,  the  old  woman  dropped  her 
meat  and  exclaimed,  in  a  terrified  voice:  "Lord  have  mercy  on 
me  !  Look  here,  Mister :  what  make  you  hate  master  so  ?  What's 
he  done  ?" 

"  He  is  a  rebel,  old  lady." 

"A  devil !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Now  God  knows  that  ain't  so. 
I've  lived  with  him  thirty  years  this  comin'  Christmas,  and  I  ain't 
never  seed  none  of  the  devil  about  him  yet.  I  tell  you,  sir,  that's 
the  gospel  truth." 

"Hurrah,  old  lady,"  exclaimed  the  lieutenant,  "I  accept  the 
altered  name,  and  thank  you  for  it,  too  !  But  I  can  tell  you  one 
thing,  that  if  the  rebels  are  not  devils,  they  have  at  least  got  the 
devil  in  them,  and  we  are  going  to  take  him  out." 

"  Take  care.  Mister,"  she  answered,  squaring  herself,  and  con- 
scious of  her  superior  wisdom  ;  "take  care,  then,  for  if  the  devil 
is  in  'em,  and  you  are  fightin'  agin  him,  you'll  be  apt  to  have  the 
worst  of  it.  I  know  something  about  him,  I  do.  I've  seed  him, 
and  I've  felt  his  power,  too.  Sure  as  you  is  born,  sir,  you  is 
fightin'  agin  mighty  great  odds,  and  if  the  Lord  don't  help  you, 
you  is  swamped  !" 

"But  we  expect  Him  to  help  us,"  he  answered,  laughing,  "for 
they  say  that  He  always  helps  the  right ;  but  see  here,  old  woman, 
if  you  don't  stop  preaching  and  get  some  of  that  bacon  out  of  that 
pile,  it  will  be  so  far  gone,  presently,  that  the  devil  himself  could 
not  save  it  for  you.  I  am  going  to  throw  this  brand  into  it  this 
minute." 

"Come  here,  Jim  and  Bob!"  she  shouted.     "Run  boys,  run, 
you  lazy  rascals  I     Pick  up  some  of  this  meat  and  pitch  it  off  • 
into  a  pile  thar,   and  for  God's  sake  don't  let  all  the  bacon 
burn  up  I" 

The  soldiers  stood  by  laughing,  and  allowed  her  to  take  off 
several  pieces ;  and  as  she  and  the  boys  started  off  to  her  cabia 
with  her  rescued  treasure,  the  officer  called  out : 

2t* 


318  CAMERON    HALL.  , 

"  Remember,  old  woman,  that  is  yours ;  it  is  not  for  anybody 
else." 

"  Yes,  Master  !"  she  answered,  loudly,  and  then  muttered  to 
herself:  "  Yes,  it's  this  nigger's  now,  sure;  and  if  it  is,  I'm  gwine 
to  do  what  I  please  with  it;  and  if  my  master  and  them  two  chil- 
dren that  I  nursed,  Julia  and  Eva,  don't  get  some  of  it,  then  old 
Nancy  won't  neither — that's  so  !  I  always  thought  that  Yankees 
was  folks  before,  but  if  they  is,  the  devil  is  in  'em  sure,  instead 
of  bein'  in  master,  as  that  fellow  said;  for  nothin'  else  under 
heaven  but  a  Yankee  or  the  devil  would  be  fool  enough  to  burn 
up  a  smoke-house  full  of  meat !" 

The  soldiers  stood  by  and  watched  the  burning  meat,  opening 
it  occasionally  with  their  bayonets,  so  that  the  fire  should  reach 
every  piece  ;  and  when  they  saw  the  whole  one  blazing  mass,  from 
which  none  could  be  rescued,  a  voice  said:  "Now  for  the 
stable,  boys  1  There  must  be  fine  horses  at  such  a  place  as 
this !" 

Eva  was  still  standing  at  the  library  window  looking  out  at  the 
scene,  and  although  she  could  not  hear  the  words,  she  saw  the 
direction  in  which  they  went,  and  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  de- 
spair :  "  There,  now  !  they  are  gone  to  the  stables  I  I  must  go, 
sister,"  she  added,  suddenly,  and  with  energy,  as  she  went  to- 
ward the  door.     "  They  shall  not  have  Dixie  !" 

"  Stop,  Eva  I"  said  Julia,  catching  her  by  the  arm.  "  Stop 
and  listen.  You  must  not,  you  need  not  go  out  of  this  room. 
They  will  not  find  Dixie,  or  Rebel,  or  papa's  riding  horse  either, 
in  the  stables." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sister  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  I  have  had  them  taken  out  and  put  somewhere 
else." 

"  Oh !  what  a  thoughtful  sister  you  are  1"  exclaimed  Eva,  joy- 
fully.    ''  "Where  did  you  hide  them  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  left  that  to  Uncle  Billy's  discretion.  He 
took  them  away  last  night;  but  you  must  not  say  anything  about 
it,  for  if  it  should  be  known,  it  would  get  the  old  man  into 
trouble." 

"Bless  you,  and  bless  Uncle  Billy,  too  !"  exclaimed  the  grate- 
ful Eva.  "  I  would  rather  that  you  should  have  saved  Dixie  than 
anything  that  I  own." 

"  He  may  not  be  saved  yet,  Eva,  for  the  Yankees  may  find  him 
even  now.  You  have  seen  that  nothing  escapes  them.  However, 
Uncle  Billy  and  I  have  done  our  best." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  him  to  hide  them  all,  sister  ?  He  might 
as  well  have  tried  to  save  the  carriage  and  buggy  horses,  loo." 

"  No,  Eva,  it  would  at  once  have  created  a  suspicion,  if  the 


CAMERON    HALL.  319 

stables  had  been  found  empty,  and  besides,  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  hide  so  many.  I  knew  that  some  were  obliged  to 
go,  and  I  only  tried  to  save  the  three  that  we  valued  most.  I 
am  very  anxious  about  them  yet,  and  shall  never  feel  that  they 
are  safe  until  the  last  Yankee  has  disappeared  from  Hopedale. 
If  I  succeed  in  saving  them  this  time,  I  am  resolved  that  Rebel 
shall  never  run  any  more  risks  of  this  sort.  I  shall  send  him  to 
the  army." 

"Oh,  sister  I  give  Rebel  away  !  I  thought  that  you  loved  him 
as  much  as  you  did  any  of  the  rest  of  us." 

"  Scarcely  so  much  as  that,  Eva,"  she  replied,  with  a  smile, 
"  though  I  am  warmly  attached  to  him,  and  there  are  few  things 
at  the  Hall  that  I  would  not  sooner  give  up ;  but  I  would  much 
rather  know  that  he  was  killed  or  worn  out  in  the  Confederate 
service,  than  to  see  a  Yankee  mounted  on  him  or  leading  him 
away  by  a  halter,  as  that  one  is  doing  the  carriage  horse  now." 

The  work  of  desolation  seemed  now  complete.  The  house 
had  been  ransacked,  the  barns  burned,  the  bacon  destroyed,  and 
the  horses  stolen,  but  there  were  still  minor  injuries  to  be  in- 
flicted which  could  not  be  neglected.  Every  gun  was  discharged, 
and  its  contents  lodged  in  some  unfortunate  fowl  that  was  walk- 
ing in  fancied  security  about  the  yard.  Some  of  them  were 
carried  off,  but  the  greater  portion  were  left  where  they  fell,  as 
tokens  of  the  wantonness  of  their  destruction. 

"Are  these  all  the  horses  that  Mr.  Cameron  has  ?"  inquired 
the  lieutenant  of  a  negro  boy,  who  stood  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  staring  with  open  eyes  and  mouth,  and  wondering  that 
the  master,  whom  he  thought  omnipotent,  should  quietly  permit 
these  men  to  take  the  horses  that  he  so  much  valued. 

"  No,  sir.  Master  had  three  more  beauties,  heap  prettier  than 
them,  but  this  mornin',  when  Uncle  Billy  went  to  the  stable,  some- 
body had  done  draw'd  the  staple,  and  all  three  was  gone.  Some- 
body stole  'em  last  night.  They  was  the  young  ladies'  and  mas- 
ter's riding  horses." 

"  Perhaps  your  master  has  hid  them  somewhere  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  that  he  ain't  1  Master  never  hid  nothin'  in  his  life ; 
and  besides,"  he  added,  with  a  knowing  look,  "  I'd  like  to  see 
anybody  hide  a  horse  on  this  'ere  plantation  whar  this  nigger 
couldn't  find  it.  No,  sir ;  them  horses  ain't  here ;  them  horses 
is  stole  sure  I" 

There  was  such  an  air  of  positive  assurance  in  the  declaration, 
that  whatever  doubts  of  its  truth  the  Yankee  might  have  had,  he 
was  nevertheless  satisfied  that  the  boy  himself  believed  what  he 
had  said,  and' seeing  nothing  more  at  present  on  which  to  exert 
his  destructive  energies,  he  collected  his  men  for  their  departure. 


320  CAMERON    HALL. 

As  he  passed  Mr.  Cameron,  who  was  standing  upon  the  porch, 
the  lieutenant  bowed,  and  said  : 

"  This  is  very  disagreeable  work,  sir,  I  assure  yon,  but  my 
orders  were  imperative.  I  hope  that  you  will  say  to  the  ladies 
that  I  regret  extremely  the  military  necessity  which  compelled 
me  to  intrude  upon  them," 

Mr.  Cameroii  made  no  reply,  and  the  party  rode  down  the 
lawn.  He  watched  them  until  he  saw  them  through  the  gate, 
and  then  going  into  the  library,  said  bitterly : 

"  Young  ladies,  the  Federal  lieutenant,  your  honorable  visitor, 
begs  me  to  assure  you  of  his  extreme  regret  at  'the  military  ne- 
cessity,' which  compelled  him  to  intrude  upon  your  privacy,  ran- 
sack your  house,  destroy  the  meat  and  bread  upon  which  you  ex- 
pected to  live,  burn  your  houses,  and  steal  your  horses  I" 

"Also,"  added  Eva,  impetuously,  "to  read  private  letters  and 
steal  spoons  and  forks  I  Truly,  it  must  require  a  great  deal  of 
courage  to  be  a  Yankee  soldier  !  Enough  to  enable  him  undis- 
mayed to  frighten  and  insult  helpless  women  and  to  pocket  their 
silver!" 

"It  is  hard,  very  hard  to  bear!"  muttered  Mr.  Cameron.  "If 
I  had  been  here  when  they  came,  I  should  have  been  calmer,  and 
could  have  borne  it  better ;  but  to  come  in  as  I  did,  and  find  you 
two  girls  at  the  mercy  of  that  insolent  ruffian,  and  see  him  en- 
gaged in  his  insulting  work,  was  almost  more  than  I  could  bear. 
It  was  just  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  keep  my  hand  from  my  re- 
volver." 

"Speaking  of  your  revolver,  papa,"  said  Julia,  "I  was  very 
anxious  about  it  when  they  were  in  your  room,  for  I  was  sure 
that  they  would  find  it.  They  said  that  they  came  to  search  for 
arms  and  soldiers." 

"That  was  the  pretext,  Julia,  and,  interpreted,  it  means  that 
they  came  for  pillage  and  plunder.  There  was,  however,  cause 
to  be  anxious  about  the  pistols,  for  they  certainly  would  not  have 
left  them  if  they  had  seen  them.  It  is  part  of  their  policy  to 
take  from  us  all  means  of  defending  ourselves." 

"Where  are  they,  papa?"  asked  Eva. 

"Never  mind.  They  were  not  so  far  oflf  that  I  could  not  have 
reached  them  when  I  was  watching  that  fellow  reading  those 
letters,  and  it  required  all  my  self-command  to  prevent  me  from 
letting  him  know  and  feel  their  proximity.  It  is  hard,  very 
hard,"  he  added,  drawing  a  deep,  hard  breath,  "for  a  man,  for  a 
father  to  bear  this  !" 

"  What  became  of  my  letters,  papa  ?"  asked  Eva.  "  Did  the 
gallant  officer  take  them  away  ?" 

"  No,  child,  he  did  not  want  your  letters,  nor  would  he  have 


CAMERON     HALL.  321 

read  them  through  for  any  consideration.  It  was  only  the  de- 
sire to  insult  and  torture  you  that  made  him  subject  himself  to 
that  painful  'military  necessity.'" 

"Sister,"  said  Eva,  "I  thought  that  I  should  faint  when  I  saw 
that  bayonet  prize  open  the  press  where  the  silver  tea-service  is 
kept,  and  you  don't  know  how  relieved  I  felt  to  see  the  empty 
shelf     What  has  become  of  it?" 

"  That  is  my  business,  Eva,"  replied  Julia.  "  I  took  care  of 
that  and  a  few  other  things,  last  night,  when  everybody  was 
asleep." 

"And  it  is  to  your  forethought  also,  Julia,"  said  her  father, 
"  that  we  are  indebted  for  the  preservation  of  the  riding  horses, 
if,  indeed,  they  are  preserved.  I  am  greatly  afraid,  however,  that 
they  will  be  found  yet." 

"  Did  Uncle  Billy  tell  you  where  they  are,  papa?" 

"He  only  informed  me,  with  an  air  of  great  importance,  this 
morning,  when  I  ordered  my  riding  horse,  that  he,  with  the  two 
others,  had  been  hid,  according  to  Miss  Julia's  orders,  and  that 
she  had  forbidden  him  to  tell  anybody,  even  his  master,  where 
they  were."  'All  right,  Billy  !'  I  answered,  '  so  that  you  are  just 
as  careful  not  to  tell  anybody  else  either.'  He  told  me,  also,  evi- 
dently quite  pleased  with  his  own  sagacity,  that  he  drew  the  staple 
from  the  stable  door  last  night,  and  this  morning  had  shown  it 
as  convincing  proof  that  the  horses  had  been  stolen.  '  But  what 
will  you  do,  Billy,  when  you  want  to  put  them  back  ?'  I  asked. 
'Never  mind,  master,'  he  answered.  'Let  me  alone  for  that. 
I  ain't  fixed  on  no  plan  about  that  yit,  but  I'll  find  some  way  to 
do  it.  You  may  be  sure  that  if  I  could  get  'em  out  without 
anybody  knowin'  it,  I  can  put  'em  back  too ;  and  if  I  could  make 
up  one  tale  I  can  make  up  another.'  I  hope  that  the  result  will 
allow  me  to  be  as  much  pleased  with  his  sagacity  in  hiding  horses 
as  he  evidently  is  himself." 

"Papa,"  said  Eva,  "what  do  you  think?  If  Rebel  escapes 
the  Yankees  this  time,  sister  intends  to  give  him  away  !" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Julia,  in  reply  to  her  father's  inquiring 
look.     "I  am  going  to  send  him  to  the  army," 

"  To  whom,  Julia  ?" 

"  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind  yet.  Walter,  you  know,  can- 
not use  him." 

"Send  him  to  Dr.  Charles,  sister,"  said  Eva. 
^  "You  may  do  so,  Eva,  if  you  wish  it,  but  I  will  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Simply  because  I  do  not  wish  to  do  so.  I  am  perfectly  will- 
ing," she  added,  with  a  slight  flush,  "  that  he  should  have  Rebel, 


322  CAMERON    HALL. 

and  I  will  give  him  to  you  if  jou  will  make  the  present  in  your 


name," 


"  I  will  do  it  gladly  enough ;  but  what  a  singular  person  you 
are,  sister  !  If  I  had  such  a  present  as  that  to  make,  I  am  sure 
that  it  should  go  in  my  own  name." 

"I  feel  otherwise,"  replied  Julia,  quietly,  "and  will  only  give 
the  horse  to  you  to  dispose  of  on  condition  that  my  name  shall 
not  be  mentioned  at  all  in  connection  with  him,  and  tliat  Dr. 
Beaufort  shall  not  know  that  he  ever  belonged  to  me." 

"  I  accept  the  conditions.  And  so  I  am  to  have  the  privilege 
of  making  the  present,  am  I  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Girls,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  "you  must  go  up  stairs  and  see 
what  is  to  be  done.  I  am  afraid  that  it  will  take  days  to  get 
everything  in  order  again." 

"  Did  they  go  into  our  rooms,  papa  ?"  asked  Eva. 

*•  They  went  everywhere,  Eva,  as  you  will  find  out  presently. 
Do  you  think  that  Willie  would  have  been  very  secure  in  that 
'safe'  garret  where  you  proposed  to  hide  him  from  the  scrutiny x)f 
Yankee  soldiers  ?" 

"  No  indeed,  sir  !  I  did  not  know  what  Yankees  were  when  I 
proposed  to  do  that.  I  had  an  idea  then  that  they  were  civil- 
ized." 

"  If  you  are  brought  into  contact  often  with  them  during  this 
war,  my  daughter,  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  that  you  have  been 
mistaken  with  regard  to  their  character  in  many  other  respects. 
From  my  heart  I  wish  that  I  could  find  some  secure  retreat  in 
the  Confederacy  where  I  was  sure  that  my  two  daughters  should 
never  again  see  a  Yankee  face."  ♦ 

The  sisters  went  up  stairs,  and  Eva  stood  at  the  door  of  her 
room  and  looked  with  dismay  at  the  chaos  out  of  which  she  was 
to  bring  order.  Wardrobe  doors  were  open,  bureau  drawers 
were  sitting  about  on  the  floor,  and  their  contents  scattered  in 
wild  confusion  all  over  the  room. 

"The  Yandals  !"  she  exclaimed,  indignantly.  "How  prepos- 
terous to  arm  themselves  with  Enfield  rifles  to  attack  and  rout  a 
woman's  wardrobe  !  An  old  flint-lock  musket  would  have  an- 
swered as  well  for  such  work  as  this." 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  summoning  assistance,  she  and  Julia 
and  the  servants  worked  hard  all  day,  trying  to  restore  order,  and 
when  night  came,  after  all  their  labor,  they  seemed  scarcely  to 
have  begun.  After  tea,  Eva  threw  herself  exhausted  upon  the 
sofa,  exclaiming : 

"  This  has  been  the  hardest  day's  work  of  my  life.     I  >vould 


I 


CAMERON    HALL.  323 

not  object  to  the  labor  and  fatigue  if  there  had  been  any  use  in. 
it,  but  to  wear  out  one's  energies  and  strength  in  doing  what  was 
wholly  unnecessary  would  try  the  patience  of  Job  !" 

The  next  morning,  immediately  after  breakfast,  they  all  went 
to  work  again.  Mr.  Cameron  and  Julia  were  arranging  the 
papers  which  had  been  thrown  out  of  his  desk,  and  Eva  was  col- 
lecting his  scattered  clothes.  The  sound  of  wheels  attracted  her 
attention,  and  running  to  the  window,  she  exclaimed : 

"  Why,  who  on  earth  can  that  be,  coming  in  a  buggy  drawn  by 
that  sorry-looking  mule  ?  Some  poor  neighbor,  I  suspect,  papa, 
coming  to  'the  squire'  for  help  and  sympathy." 

"  The  squire  can  give  him  a  plenty  of  the  last,  my  daughter, 
but,  alas !  not  much  of  the  first  just  now." 

Eva  watched  the  approaching  buggy,  and  as  it  stopped  at  the 
door,  she  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh,  saying : 

"  It  is  Fncle  John,  I  do  declare  !  I  must  run  down  and  see 
that  splendid  animal !" 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  fine  buggy  horse,  Uncle  John  ?"  she 
asked,  as  she  met  him  in  the  hall.  "  I  don't  think  that  I  ever  saw 
a  finer  display  of  ribs !" 

"It  is  to  this,  my  daughter,  that  I  probably  owe  the  privilege 
of  coming  behind  him  to  the  Hall  this  morning.  If  those  ribs 
had  been  covered  with  a  decent  amount  of  flesh,  he  would  have 
been  in  the  Yankee  service  to-day." 

"I  suppose  from  this.  Uncle  John,  that  they  visited  your  stable 
too." 

"  Not  my  stable  only,  but  my  whole  house,  to  punish  me  doubt- 
less for  the  offense  of  opening  it  to  sick  and  wounded  Confed- 
erate soldiers.  They  did  not  find  anything  in  the  house  to  tempt 
their  cupidity,  for  you  know  that  my  furniture  is  plain;  but  it 
makes  me  groan  to  go  into  the  stable.  Both  my  fine  horses 
gone  !" 

Mr.  Cameron  and  Julia  now  joined  them  in  the  library,  and 
Uncle  John  said : 

"I  came  out,  sir,  to  see  for  myself  what  depredations  had  been 
committed  here.  I  heard  the  most  exaggerated  reports  in  town  ; 
and  although  I  did  not  believe  them,  still  they  made  me  uneasy. 
I  heard,  for  one  thing,  that  they  had  burned  your  barns  with  all 
their  contents." 

"  Which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Uncle  John,  is  a  lamentable  truth. 
If  you  will  look  through  that  window,  you  will  see  in  everyplace, 
where  yesterday  morning  stood  a  well-filled  barn,  a  heap  of  black- 
ened ruins." 

"Is  it  possible !"  exclaimed  Uncle  John,  going  to  the  window 
and  looking  mournfully  upon  the  scene  of  desolation.     "I  did 


324  CAMERON     HALL. 

not  believe  that  they  were  such  Yandals.  If  they  had  wanted  the 
food  themselves,  I  knew  that  they  would  take  it ;  but  I  did  not 
suppose  that  they  would  thus  wantonly  destroy  it." 

"  Have  they  gone,  Uncle  John  ?"  asked  Julia. 

"Yes,  they  went  away  last  night.  The  town  is  as  quiet  this 
morning  as  if  they  had  never  been  there." 

"What  damage  did  they  do  ?"  asked  Mr.  Cameron. 

"  They  rifled  stores,  stole  horses,  threatened  some  rebels,  as 
they  call  them,  and  frightened  some  women  and  children  by 
searching  houses.  They  did  not  destroy  any  property,  however, 
not  even  the  depot;  but  the  rumor  this  morning  is,  that  they  have 
torn  up  the  railroad  for  fifteen  miles." 

"  Did  they  annoy  Grace  ?"  asked  Julia. 

"They  stopped  at  the  gate,  and  asked  some  questions  of  a 
negro,  who  told  them  that  the  house  was  occupied  by  a  blind 
child  and  her  mother,  and  that  no  rebel  soldiers  had  stayed  there, 
and  so  they  passed  by.  I  did  not  think  that  it  was  safe  for  Grace 
and  Agnes  to  stay  there  alone  last  night,  and  insisted  that  they 
should  go  to  Mr.  Derby's ;  but  I  could  not  prevail  upon  the  silly 
child  to  go,  for  fear  that  if  she  left  her  organ  the  Yankees  would 
come  and  break  it  up.  I  could  not  convince  her  that  they  would 
not  take  the  trouble  to  destroy  it ;  neither  could  I  persuade  her 
that  if  they  wanted  to  do  it,  she  could  not  protect  it.  She  was 
perfectly  immovable ;  and  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  I  had  to 
yield,  as  I  always  do,  and  inasmuch  as  they  ought  not  to  stay 
there  alone,  I  had  to  stay  myself-  with  them.  Grace  says  that 
Agnes  was  the  most  miserable  child  yesterday  that  she  ever  saw. 
She  would  not  play,  and  she  started  at  the  sound  of  every  foot- 
step, fearing  lest  it  might  be  the  Yankees  coming  to  break  her 
organ.  But  this  morning,  since  I  have  assured  her  that  they  are 
gone,  she  is  quite  happy  again,  and  I  left  her  playing  the  first 
joyful  music  since  the  battle  of  Manassas." 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  "did  you  say  that  the  railroad  had 
been  torn  up  ?" 

"Yes,  Eva,  it  is  so  reported." 

"  In  which  direction  ?" 

"South." 

"Oh,  then,"  she  exclaimed,  "Willie  cannot  come  back  I" 

Uncle  John  could  not  help  smiling,  as  he  replied : 

"  That  is  a  calamity  certainly,  Eva ;  but  there  are  even  worse 
ones  than  that  resulting  from  the  loss  of  that  road.  When  did 
Willie  expect  to  return  ?" 

"In  two  weeks  from  this  time,  and  he  will  be  so  disappointed  I 
Poor  Willie  !  I  am  sorry  for  him.  He  has  had  such  a  lonely, 
wearisome  time  with  that  wound,  that  it  seems  indeed  a  pity  that 


CAMERON    HALL.  325 

he  should  be  deprived  of  any  little  pleasure  which  he  is  capable 
of  enjoying." 

"  He  has  had  a  long  and  painful  time,  I  grant  you,  Eva ;  but 
I  cannot  agree  with  you  in  thinking  that  it  has  been  either  lonely 
or  wearisome.  Did  it  seem  to  you,  Julia,"  he  asked,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  "thalt  Willie  was  very  much  fatigued  with  the 
monotonous  life  at  the  Hall  ?" 

"I  thought,"  answered  Julia,  with  a  lurking  smile,  "that  he 
bore  it  with  commendable  fortitude." 

"I  used  to  think  him  a  model  of  patience,"  answered  Uncle 
John,  "when  I  saw  him  day  after  day  in  the  same  place  on  the 
sofa,  and  Eva  in  the  same  place  beside  him,  doing  the  same  thing, 
either  reading  or  talking  to  him,  sewing  a  button  on  for  him,  or 
arranging  flowers  for  him.  I  wondered  then  how  he  could  bear 
the  monotony  so  well ;  but  I  never  heard  him  complain  of  it 
once, — did  you,  Eva?" 

"Now,  Uncle  John,"  she  replied,  "you  might  just  as  well  stop 
all  that.  You  cannot  tease  me  now,  for  you  have  done  it  so 
long,  that  I  am  proof  against  it.  You  yourself  brought  Willie 
here,  and  commended  him  specially  to  my  care,  and  begged  me 
to  help  sister  nurse  him.     I  only  did  what  you  requested." 

"And,  of  course,  only  because  I  requested  it,  Eva  I" 

"Yes,  at  first,  but  not  afterward ;  for  when  I  learned  to  know 
Willie  I  liked  him  for  himself  He  has  many  interesting  traits 
of  character,  and  these,  together  with  my  sympathy  for  his  suffer- 
ings, and  my  anxiety  lest  traveling  in  his  condition  should  cause 
him  to  suffer  just  as  much  again,  have  made  me  take  almost  as 
much  interest  in  him  as  I  do  in  Walter." 

"In  whom,  Eva?" 

"In  Walter,  Uncle  John." 

"In  Walter  1  Whew 1"  exclaimed  Uncle  John,  prolong- 
ing the  interjection  most  significantly  and  provokingly. 

The  crimson  flush  mounted  in  an  instant  to  Eva's  temples,  and 
the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes.  She  was  now  thoroughly  annoyed 
and  displeased,  and,  getting  up,  she  went  to  the  window  and  stood 
looking  out  upon  the  lawn. 

"You  have  hurt  her,  Uncle  John,"  whispered  Julia. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  do  it,  indeed  I  did  not,"  he  answered,  jump- 
ing up  and  following  her.  He  saw  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and 
putting  his  arm  around  her,  asked  forgiveness. 

"I  thought  that  I  might  venture  to  tease  you  just  a  little,  my 
daughter,"  he  said,  playing  with  one  of  her  curls;  "especially 
since  you  have  just  told  me  that  you  were  proof  against  it." 

"About  anything  else,  Uncle  John,  but  please  not  about  Willie. 
Indeed,"  she  said  earnestly,  and  the  tears  came  back,  "  I  did  not 

28 


326  CAMERON    HALL, 

dream,  Uncle  John,  that  you  would  misunderstand  me.  I  thought 
that  perhaps  others  might,  but  you  never  1" 

If  Uncle  John,  like  Julia,  thought  in  his  heart  that  she  was 
mistaken,  he  saw  that  she  was  at  least  sincere  in  believing  that 
her  love  for  Willie  was  altogether  sisterly;  and  so  he  accepted 
her  explanation,  and  only  asked  : 

"  Is  Willie  quite  satisfied  with  this  sisterly  affection,  Eva  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  he  seemed  so." 

"Does  he  understand  and  believe  it?" 

"  I  should  hope  so,  for  he  has  heard  it  often  enough,  and 
seemed  quite  willing  to  occupy  Walter's  position  in  the  family." 

"  Doubtless,  with  certain  members  of  it ;   perhaps  not  with  all." 

"Well,  Uncle  John,"  she  replied,  with  the  flush  still  upon  her 
cheek,  "have  it  your  own  way.  Fortunately,  I  understand  you 
perfectly,  and  am  accustomed  to  your  teasing,  and  will  try  and 
bear  it^now  philosophically,  if  by  way  of  compensation  you  will 
take  this  letter  to  town  and  mail  it" 

"Who  is  your  favored  correspondent,  Eva?" 

"Willie,"  she  answered. 

"  Perhaps  you  can  engage  my  services  to  mail  it  on  one  condi- 
tion; and  that  is  that  I  may  be  allowed  to  read  the  sisterly 
document." 

"It  would  not  repay  you  for  the  trouble.  Uncle  John." 

"That  remains  to  be  proved.  Bring  it  here  and  let  me  read 
a  page,  and  see  if  I  think  that  it  is  worth  finishing." 

"I  am  sure  that  you  would  not,  sir.  It  is  the  most  stupid  let- 
ter that  I  have  sent  him  yet.  I  was  so  tired  last  night,  that  I 
had  not  energy  enough  left  even  to  abuse  the  Yankees.  Indeed, 
Uncle  John,  you  would  never  have  the  patience  to  wade  through  it. " 

"Well,  I  must  say  that  it  is  very  unkind  in  you  to  subject  your 
weak,  invalid  brother  to  an  infliction  that  I,  in  strong,  robust 
health,  could  not  bear.  That  is  not  sisterly,  Eva, — do  you  think 
so?" 

"Uncle  John,  do  let  me  alone  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Julia,  how  often  does  she  inflict  these  voluminous  documents 
on  Willie  ?" 

"  I  believe,  sir,  that  she  sends  him  one  every  day." 

"Every  day!  Worse  and  worse  !  I  declare,  Eva,  that  is  out- 
rageous !  I  know  that  you  would  treat  your  brother  Walter  more 
judiciously  than  that,  if  he  were  in  Willie's  weak  condition. 
Willie  is  not  strong  enough  yet  for  the  daily  repetition  of  such 
an  irksome  task ;  and  if  you  are  not  careful,  the  exertion  of  read- 
ing such  frequent  and  such  '  stupid '  letters,  will  produce  fever, 
and  with  no  sister  Eva  to  nurse  him,  I  should  tremble  for  the 
result." 


CAMERON    HALL  327 

"Uncle  John,  you  are  perfectly  absurd  and  proyoking  this 
morning !"  she  exclaimed,  now  thoroughly  out  of  patience,  and 
as  much  annoyed  by  Julia's  quiet  smile,  and  the  peculiar  expres- 
sion of  her  father's  face,  as  she  was  by  Uncle  John's  words.  "  If 
it  were  anybody  else,  I  should  be  really  angry.  This  is  the  re- 
sult of  having  spoiled  you  all  my  life.  I  have  always  submitted 
good-naturedly  to  your  teasing,  and  now  you  are  going  to  abuse 
the  privilege." 

"Which  is  always  the  lamentable  result,  my  daughter,"  he 
answered,  laughing,  "  of  injudicious  indulgence,  whether  of  an 
unreasonable  old  man,  or  an  unreasonable  little  child.  But  come, 
let  us  be  friends  again.  The  spoiled  old  man  cannot  afford  to 
lose  the  good  will  of  his  indulgent  young  friend.  Forgive  me 
this  time,  Eva,  and  I  will  promise  never  again  to  say  a  word 
against  any  amount  of  sisterly  affection  that  you  may  choose  to 
bestow  upon  your  brother  Willie." 

"Agreed.     And  now  will  you  mail  my  letter?" 

"No,  Eva,"  he  said,  "for,  all  teasing  and  jesting  aside,  your 
letter  cannot  go  to  AVillie  now.  Didn't  I  tell  you  just  no^  that 
the  railroad  is  torn  up  for  fifteen  miles?" 

"And  must  we  wait  until  it  is  repaired  before  we  can  even  hear 
from  our  friends  ?" 

"Yes  ;  either  until  the  road  is  repaired,  or  some  other  arrange- 
ment is  made  for  transporting  the  mails." 

"  How  long  before  the  road  will  be  repaired  ?" 

"  That,  my  daughter,  I  cannot  tell.  As  we  are  beyond  the 
Confederate  lines,  we  will  not  of  course  do  it  ourselves,  since  we 
could  not  use  it;  and  unless  the  Yankees  occupy  the  place  and 
put  it  in  order  for  their  own  use,  it  will  probably  remain  as  it  is 
for  a  long  time,  perhaps  during  the  war." 

"And  so  we  are  shut  up,"  she  exclaimed,  in  dismay.  "  Shut 
up  alike  from  seeing  our  friends  and  from  hearing  from  them.  I 
declare  this  is  intolerable  !" 

"  This  is  war,  my  daughter,  and  it  brings  in  its  train  many 
evils,  so  much  more  vexatious  and  annoying,  that  this  seems  as 
nothing  in  comparison.  I  am  going  now,  Eva,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand.  "  Good-by  !  I  have  teased  and  worried  you  too  much 
this,  morning,  I  confess,  but  the  temptation  was  irresistible.  I 
was  obliged  to  do  something  to  divert  my  thoughts  from  Yankee 
depredations." 

"Humbug!  nonsense!"  exclaimed  Eva,  as  she  and  Julia  re- 
turned to  the  library  after  Uncle  John  had  gone.  "As  if  I  couldn't 
tell  whether  or  not  my  love  for  Willie  was  sisterly  I  Don't  you 
believe  that  I  could,  sister?" 

"  I  am  very  sure  that  I  could,  Eva,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 


328  CAMERON    HALL. 

"And  so  could  anybody  that  would  take  the  trouble  to  study 
their  own  feelings,  even  if  they  were  doubtful.  As  to  mine,  they 
are  too  patent  to  everybody  else,  as  well  as  to  myself,  to  require 
any  study.  Anybody  who  understands  me,  and  knows  how 
readily  I  form  attachments,  and  how  ardent  my  feelings  are, 
could  at  once  comprehend  my  love  for  Willie." 

"You  have  a  very  good  test,  Eva,  if  you  choose  to  apply  it,  by 
which  to  judge  your  feelings.  Walter  is  your  brother,  and  just 
about  Willie's  age,  and  you  have  only  to  compare  your  love  for 
the  two  plainly  to  understand  the  case." 

Eva  did  not  reply,  but  she  thought:  "I  understand  it  already. 
However,  sister,  I  will  try  your  test,  just  to  satisfy  myself  that  I 
am  right.  The  idea  of  two  such  children  being  lovers  !  A  pretty 
pair  we  would  make,  with  the  combined  age,  wisdom,  and  expe- 
rience of  seventeen  and  twenty  I     The  thought  is  absurd." 

Eva  had  time  enough  during  the  next  two  weary  weeks  to 
study  her  feelings,  and,  however  strongly  she  resisted  the  convic- 
tion, the  truth  gradually  forced  itself  upon  her  that  there  was, 
after  all,  a  shade  of  difference  in  the  love  that  she  felt  for  the  two, 
a  shade,  however,  which  she  accounted  for  in  the  difference  of 
their  conditions, — Walter  being  in  high  health  and  spirits,  and 
needing  neither  tenderness  nor  sympathy,  while  Willie,  an  invalid 
among  strangers,  needed  both.  No  letters  had  come  from  either, 
neither  could  she  write  any.  She  could  not  deny  that  the  long- 
ing to  hear  from  Willie  was  the  more  painful.  "But  it  is  natural," 
she  argued,  "that  it  should  be  so,  for  I  am  anxious  about  his 
health." 

The  appointed  three  weeks  had  more  than  passed  away.  Every- 
thing was  quiet  in  Hopedale.  There  were  no  more  rumors  of 
threatened  raids,  and  everybody  believed  that  all  the  mischief 
that  could  be  done  had  been  accomplished,  and  that  there  was  no 
more  reason  to  apprehend  another  visit  from  the  enemy.  Still, 
Willie  did  not  come,  and  Eva  was  restless  and  disturbed  ;  but  she 
thought  that  she  succeeded  in  keeping  it  all  to  herself,  assigning 
as  a  reason  for  her  unwonted  concealment,  that  Uncle  John  and 
sister  did  not  understand  her,  and  she  was  resolved  hereafter  to 
avoid  everything  that  could  confirm  their  foohsh  suspicions. 

It  was  a  bright  December  afternoon.  The  sun  was  pleasant, 
and  there  was  no  keen,  biting  winter  wind.  Eva  was  tired  of  the 
house ;  tired  of  reading,  of  sewing,  gf  everything  within  doors. 
The  bright  sunshine  tempted  her,  and  she  rang  the  bell,  intending 
to  order  Dixie  saddled,  but  before  it  was  answered  she  changed 
her  mind,  and  when  the  servant  came,  she  said : 

"Lucy,  bring  my  cloak,  hat,  and  gloves." 

They  were  brought,  and  in  a  few  moments  she  was  sauntering 


CAMERON    HALL.  329 

slowly  down  the  lawn,  with  a  very  different  gait  from  her  usual 
bounding  step.  She  had  no  special  reason  for  going  to  the 
grove,  whose  leafless  trees  and  carpet  of  dead,  crisp  leaves  formed 
a  painful  contrast  to  the  refreshing  shade  and  beauty  of  its  sum- 
mer dress;  but  she  was  restless,  and  wanted  to  go  somewhere,  or 
do  something,  she  cared  not  what,  if  she  could  only  beguile  her 
thoughts  a  little  while  from  the  one  absorbing  subject.  But  her 
thoughts  went  with  her,  and  were  busy  with  vain  conjectures  as 
'to  the  cause  of  Willie's  delay,  and  torturing  fears  lest  he  might 
not  come  at  all.  One  moment  she  almost  hoped  that  he  would 
not  attempt  it,  for  she  was  afraid  that  the  journey  would  injure 
him ;  the  next,  she  thought  of  his  recovery  and  return  to  the 
army,  cut  off  from  all  communication  with  her  for  months,  per- 
haps longer,  and  then  she  wanted  him  to  come  at  any  and  all 
hazards.  Bewildered  and  oppressed,  having  beconae  daily  more 
and  more  uncertain  with  regard  to  the  nature  of  those  feelings 
of  which  she  had  not  long  ago  been  so  confident,  not  able  to  de- 
fine them  to  herself,  and  not  knowing  exactly  how  she  felt  or  what 
she  wanted,  she  wandered  on  with  a  disturbed,  anxious  face,  very 
different  from  its  accustomed  sunshine.  She  went  far  into  the 
grove,  still  keeping  the  carriage-road,  until  she  reached  the  old 
walnut-tree,  whose  leafless  limbs  now  stretched  like  long  gaunt 
arms  over  the  road.  The  sight  of  the  old  tree,  with  its  broad, 
flat  stone  underneath,  and  the  broken  remnants  of  decayed  shells 
around,  memorials  of  the  happy  nut-gatherings  of  other  days,  at 
once  recalled  Walter.  For  an  instant,  even  Willie  was  forgotten. 
The  innocent  pleasures  and  the  companion  of  her  childhood  rose 
before  her ;  she  remembered  those  happy  days  of  careless  mirth, 
and  contrasted  them  painfully  with  her  present  disquiet  and  un- 
rest, and  the  thought  flashed  across  her  with  a  pang : 

''Will  I,  can  I  ever  be  a  child  again  ?  Is  the  burden  now 
upon  my  heart  a  sign,  a  pledge,  that  I  can  never  more  be  the 
careless,  happy  child  that  I  was  not  long  ago,  with  no  more  anx- 
iety than  the  butterfly  or  the  bird  ?  Ah,  sister,  it  was  no  sacri- 
fice for  you  to  become  a  woman,  for  your  very  childhood  was 
womanly;  but  for  me,  I  dread  womanhood,  with  its  cares  and 
responsibilities.  I  wish  that  I  could  always  be  the  merry,  light- 
hearted  child  that  I  was  when  Willie  first  came  to  the  Hall :  at 
least,  I  wish  that  the  change  could  have  been  gradual;  but  I  do 
not  know  how  or  when  it  has  come.  I  only  know  that  a  few 
short  months  ago  I  was  a  child  in  heart  and  feeling ;  now,  I  must 
be  a  woman,  for  childhood  surely  never  felt  such  anxiety  as 
mine  I" 

If  she  heard,  she  did  not  heed  the  crackling  sound  of  the  crisp 

28* 


330  CAMERON    HALL. 

leaves  as  they  were  crushed  beneath  a  horse's  slow,  deliberate 
tread.  The  horseman  looked  with  eager,  scrutinizing  gaze  upon 
the  girlish  figure  that  seemed  strangely  out  of  place  seated  upon 
that  cold  stone,  in  a  leafless  grove,  upon  a  winter's  day.  But  he 
felt  that  he  could  not  be  mistaken.  He  knew  who  it  was,  although 
he  did  not  see  the  face,  and  dismounting,  slowly  and  with  diffi- 
culty, he  walked  quietly  along  until  he  stood  behind  Eva. 

She  was  not  given  to  thoughtful  moods,  much  less  to  reverie. 
These  she  had  always  considered  the  prerogative  of  womanhood, ' 
and  therefore  something  with  which  she  had  no  concern ;  but  she 
was  now  quite  as  deeply  absorbed  as  her  more  thoughtful  sister 
had  ever  been.  Willie  waited  in  vain  for  a  movement  or  a  sign 
of  recognition.  If  he  had  been  one  of  the  trees  around  her,  she 
could  not  have  seemed  more  unconscious  of  his  presenoe ;  and  at 
last,  tired  of  waiting,  he  laid  his  hand  gently  upon  her  shoulder, 
and  said  : 

•'What  are  you  thinking  about,  Eva  ?" 

She  could  not  have  been  more  startled  if  a  visitant  from  the 
other  world  had  stood  before  her.  She  turned  deadly  pale,  and 
from  the  tumult  of  feelings,  in  which  surprise  and  pleasure,  doubt 
and  anxiety  were  all  mingled,  the  excitable  child  found  refuge,  as 
she  generally  did,  in  a  good  hearty  cry.  It  was  not  altogether  a 
strange  sight  to  Willie.  Twice  before  he  had  seen  her  thus  over- 
come, but  then  she  had  been  much  distressed;  and  seeing  her 
here  thus,  alone  at  such  a  season,  argued  something  unusual,  and 
he  was  afraid  something  distressing.  He  took  his  seat  beside 
her,  and  waited  in  silence  until  she  should  speak  to  him.  She 
cried  on  until  she  was  relieved,  and  then,  wiping  her  eyes,  and 
smiling  brightly  upon  him,  like  the  sunshine  after  a  summer 
shower,  she  welcomed  him  gladly  to  the  Hall  again. 

But  he  was  not  satisfied  thus  to  ignore  her  unexplained  tears, 
and  so  he  said : 

"  Something  troubles  you,  Eva  ;  what  is  it?" 

With  a  smile  and  a  blush,  she  answered,  evasively : 

"  No,  Willie,  I  am  not  necessarily  in  trouble  because  I  cry.  I 
am  only  a  silly  child,  whose  tears  are  shallow,  and  always  ready 
to  overflow.  But  come,"  she  added,  wishing  to  change  the  sub- 
ject, "  you  look  tired.  You  must  not  stay  here,  you  must  go  at 
once  to  the  Hall,  so  mount  your  horse  and  ride  on,  and  I  will 
follow  as  quickly  as  I  can." 

"  Yes,  Eva,  I  am  tired,  but  I  am  not  going  to  the  house  yet. 
Sit  down  again,"  he  added,  drawing  her  gently  back,  "for  you 
are  not  going  either.  I  am  too  glad  to  find  you  alone,  and  what- 
ever may  be  the  result,  my  suspense,  at  least,  will  be  relieved  be- 
fore we  leave  this  spot.     You  have  told  me  more  than  once,  Eva, 


CAMERON    HALL.  331 

that  you  regarded  me  as  a  brother,  that  Walter  and  I  were  side 
by  side  in  your  heart.  Once  or  twice  a  remonstrance  trembled 
upon  my  lips,  but  I  checked  it.  Your  words  were  positive  ;  they 
could  not  be  misunderstood,  and  I  have  no  right  to  think  either 
that  you  were  yourself  deceived  or  mestnt  to  deceive  me.  I  ac- 
cepted the  brother's  place,  at  least  I  tried  to  do  so ;  but,  Eva,  it 
would  not  do,  and  I  have  come  back  now  to  tell  you  that  it  does 
not,  it  will  not,  it  cannot  satisfy  me.  Oh,  Eva  I  recall  that  one 
word,  take  back  that  sister's  love.  I  would  rather  have  none 
than  that.  If  you  do  not  love  me  at  all,  perhaps  my  great  love 
for  you  will  after  awhile  awaken  a  response ;  but  if  you  have  al- 
ready given  me  a^  sister's  affection,  I  know  that  I  can  never  have 
any  other.     Speak  to  me,  Eva;  tell  me  something." 

She  looked  as  if  she  were  about  to  resort  to  her  usual  relief  of 
tears,  but  she  controlled  herself,  and  a  deep  blush  overspread  her 
face  and  neck  as  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice : 

"I  was  mistaken,  Willie.  I  have  found  it  out  since  you  went 
away.     It  is  no  sister's  love  that  I  have  for  you  " 

"Now,  God  bless  you  for  that,  my  darling!"  he  said,  as  he 
clasped  her  face  in  his  hands  and  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  fore- 
head.    *'  God  bless  you  for  that  one  word  1" 

"Oh,  Willie  !"  she  exclaimed,  blushing  crimson,  and  releasing 
herself  from  his  grasp,  "that  would  be  dreadful  if  we  were  any- 
thing but  children." 

"If  this  be  one  of  the  privileges  of  childhood,  Eva,"  he  an- 
swered, smiling,  "we  shall  always  be  children,  and  you  must  not 
think  me  a  very  unreasonable  one  if  I  tell  you  that  I  am  not  yet 
satisfied.  I  cannot  be  contented  only  to  know  that  you  are  not 
my  sister ;  I  must  also  know  when  you  will  be  my  wife." 

"  You  and  papa  and  sister  must  settle  that,  Willie,"  she  an- 
swered, with  her  old  merry  laugh.  "  I  know  nothing  about  such 
things.  But  I  don't  think  that  it  will  be  very  soon,  for  papa  looks 
upon  me  as  nothing  but  a  child,  and  I  am  sure  that  he  will  want 
you  to  wait  until  I  become  a  woman." 

"  We  are  both  little  more  than  children,  Eva ;  but  that  need 
not  separate  us.  We  will  only  grow  older  and  wiser  all  the  bet- 
ter, if  we  can  do  so  together.     Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"Yes,  Willie,  I  agree  with  you;  but  I  am  afraid  that  papa 
will  think  differently.  Suppose  that  we  agree  to  abide  cheer- 
fully by  his  decision,  like  obedient  children;  will  you,  Willie  ?" 

"Yes,  Eva,  I  will  try." 

"  Come  now,  you  must  go.  You  look  tired  enough  to  faint. 
Kide  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  go  straight  into  the  library.  Your 
sofa  is  ready  for  you,  and  my  little  chair  is  in  the  same  old 
place." 


332  CAMERON    HALL. 

*'I  would  much  rather  walk  with  yon,  Eva;  but  that  is  out  of 
the  question,  for  I  am  now  so  tired  that  I  can  scarcely  stand." 

"  Well,  then,  get  on  your  horse  quickly,  and  be  off." 

As  he,  mounted  slowly,  and  started  off  in  a  walk,  she  said, 
laughing : 

"If  you  go  at  that  gait,  Willie,  you  will  find  me  seated  in  my 
little  chair  when  you  get  there." 

"  I  cannot  ride  any  faster,  Eva,"  he  said.  "  This  has  been  my 
gait  all  the  way.     The  jolting  is  painful." 

She  had  intended  to  run  on  before  and  announce  his  arrival ; 
but  when  he  said  this,  and  she  saw  how  exhausted  he  looked,  and 
how  evidently  he  was  suffering,  she  walked  ajong  quietly  and 
anxiously  by  his  side,  fearing  lest,  after  all,  he  might  not  be  able 
to  reach  the  house.  It  was  with  great  relief  that  she  saw  him  at 
last  in  the  lawn;  and  then  darting  forward,  and  skimming  the 
ground  like  a  bird,  she  ran  to  the  house,  calling  aloud  : 

"  Oh,  papa  !  oh,  sister  !    Willie  has  come  !    Willie  has  come  !" 

Thus  summoned,  Mr.  Cameron  and  Julia  hastened  to  the  door, 
where  they  stood  several  minutes  waiting  for  him.  Mr.  Cameron 
assisted  him  to  dismount,  and  supported  him  into  the  library ; 
where  Eva  had  already  wheeled  the  sofa  near  the  fire,  and  brought 
pillows  and  blankets  to  make  him  comfortable.  She  placed  her 
little  chair  beside  him,  and,  seating  herself,  said  : 

"Now,  Willie,  you  are  at  home  again.  This  seems  like  old 
times." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  answered,  softly  : 

"  Better  than  old  times,  Eva.  I  am  not  Walter  now,  and  I  am 
happy  !  You  must  all  entertain  me  to-night,"  he  said.  "I  am 
too  tired  to  talk,  but  just  tired  enough  to  listen." 

That  ni^ht,  when  Julia  was  almost  ready  for  bed,  Eva  stole 
softly  into  her  room,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Sister,  may  I  talk  to  you  a  little  while  ?" 

"Yes,  child,"  Julia  answered,  knowing  well  what  was  coming. 

"I  have  found  out  something,  sister,"  she  said,  blushing.  "I 
have  found  out  that  I  don't  love  Willie  as  I  do  Walter." 

"And  I  found  that  out  long  ago,  Eva." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me  so,  sister  ?" 

"I  intimated  once,  you  recollect,  that  such  a  thing  was  possi- 
ble ;  but  you  repelled  the  thought  so  indignantly,  that  I  could 
do  nothing  but  leave  you  to  find  it  out  for  yourself,  which  I 
knev^that  sooner  or  later  you  must  do.  I  have  suspected  for 
several  days  past  that  the  truth  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon 
you." 

•  "  No,  sister,  the  truth  never  dawned,  it  flashed  upon  me.     I 
only  began  to  find  out  that  Willie  did  not  occupy  Walter's  place 


CAMERON    HALL.  333  ' 

in  my  heart.  What  he  really  was  to  me,  I  never  knew  until  this 
evening,  when  he  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  and  my  heart  responded 
so  fully  and  unreservedly,  that  I  knew  it  must  be  a  wife's  love 
that  I  had  for  him;  and  so  I  promised." 

"What  does  papa  say,  Eva?" 

"  I  have  not  told  him  yet.  Willie  is  to  do  that  in  the  morn- 
ing; but  there  is  but  one  answer  that  he  can  give.  There  is, 
there  can  be  no  objection  against  my  Willie  I" 

"Happy,  confiding  child  !"  thought  Julia.  "May  you  never 
awaken  from  your  sweet  dream  of  bliss  I — Eva,"  she  said,  "do  you 
not  think  that  this  was  a  grave  and  important  step  to  take  with- 
out consulting  papa  ?" 

"  It  might  have  been  with  anybody  else,  sister ;  but  it  could 
not  be  with  Willie.  Papa  will  not,  cannot  object ;  you  will  see 
it." 

"  But  just  suppose  that  he  should.     What  then  ?" 

"  I  never  trouble  myself  about  possibilities.  I  am  very  sure 
that  papa  will  think  it  all  right.  Willie  and  I  belong  to  each 
other  now,  and  nobody  can  separate  us." 

"You  certainly,  Eva,  would  not  marry  him  without  papa's  con- 
sent I" 

"1^0 — never,  sister  I  Papa  can,  and  if  he  sees  fit  he  will,  pre- 
vent our  being  married,  but  I  do  not  believe  that  he  will ;  but 
neither  papa  nor  any  other  human  being  could  prevent  our  loving 
each  other.'  We  cannot  ourselves  control  that  now.  I  do  not 
expect  papa  to  consent  to  our  immediate  marriage,  and  I  have 
told  Willie  so,  and  we  have  agreed  to  be  obedient  children  and 
await  his  time  ;  but  of  the  final  result  we  have  neither  of  us  any 
doubt.     If  we  live  we  shall  go  through  life  together." 

"God  grant  you,  Eva,  the  realization  of  your  dream !  It  is  a 
happiness  which  He  sees  best  to  deny  to  some  hearts.  Some, 
as  warm  and  loving,  and  as  closely  bound  together  as  yours  and 
Willie's,  He  sometimes  sunders  by  an  insurmountable  barrier." 

"Such  will  not  be  our  fate,  I  am  sure,"  answered  Eva,  cheer- 
fully. "  Willie  and  I  are  going  to  be  happy,  very  happy,  sister, 
and  won't  you  be  glad?" 

"Very  glad,  my  darling.  Should  God  see  best  to  make  all 
your  life  as  bright  and  happy  as  it  has  been  in  your  childhood's 
home,  none  would  rejoice  more  than  your  sister.  But,  Eva,  you 
must  not  certainly  expect  it  to  be  so.  God,  like  our  earthly 
father,  finds  it  necessary  sometimes  to  mingle  chastening  with 
happiness;  the  cloud  and  the  rain  are  as  needful  as  the  sunshine, 
to  perfect  the  flower."  ^ 

Eva  kissed  her  sister,  and  with  a  light,  buoyant  heart  went  ofi^ 
to  her  pleasant  sleep  and  happy  dreams;  while  the  troubled  Julia 


334  CAMERON    HALL. 

tossed  and  groaned  through  the  live-long  night,  as  she  thought  of 
the  happiness  of  her  child-sister,  and  tried  to  gain  her  own  con- 
sent to  cloud  that  sunshine,  and  to  send  a  pang  through  that 
young  heart.  It  was  the  most  painful  struggle  of  her  life.  She 
had  unhesitatingly  sacrificed  her  own  happiness,  but  she  could 
not  so  readily  blight  her  sister's.  However,  Julia  was  accus- 
tomed to  delay  only  until  she  was  convinced  of  the  right;  and 
when  she  arose  in  the  morning  from  her  sleepless  bed,  it  was  with 
an  unfaltering  purpose  to  do  what  she  conceived  to  be  her  duty. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


The  next  morning,  Mr.  Cameron  received  a  message  from 
Willie,  saying  that  he  was  not  able  to  get  up  to  breakfast,  and 
requesting  him  to  come  to  his  room  at  his  earliest  convenience. 

With  boyish  frankness  and  simplicity  he  told  his  story,  and 
quietly  awaited  the  response,  whose  purport,  as  Eva  had  told  her 
sister,  his  unsuspecting  heart  had  never  doubted.  Mr.  Cameron 
was  not  so  much  surprised  by  his  declaration  as  Willie  had  ex- 
pected ;  for  his  experienced  eye,  like  Julia's,  had  seen  it  long 
ago.     He  took  Willie's  hand  cordially,  as  he  replied  : 

"  I  have  but  one  objection,  my  son.  You  are  both  altogether 
too  young.  As  to  Eva,  she  is  nothing  but  a  child;  Willie.  You 
know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"It  is  true,  sir,"  he  answered  modestly,  "that  we  are  both  very 
young  and  without  experience.  We  have  that  yet  to  learn  ;  but 
may  we  not  do  it  as  well  together  as  apart  ?  I  have  heard  some- 
thing, too,  Mr.  Cameron,  of  an  assimilating  process  being  neces- 
sary between  newly-married  people,  and  that  during  that  process 
there  a"re  many  clashing  feelings  which  produce  an  occasional  jar, 
or  sometimes  even  a  perpetual  heartache.  Now,  might  we  not 
be  spared  much  of  this,  by  beginning  life  together  so  young,  and 
having  our  characters  and  tempers  moulded  by  the  same  circum- 
stances and  interests ;  and  would  there  not  be  sooner  produced 
that  oneness  which  makes  the  happiness  of  married  life,  and 
which  is  sometimes  purchased,  by  people  who  marry  later,  at  the 
cost  of  many  a  pang?" 

Mr.  Cameron  smiled,  as  he  replied  : 

"Your 'argument  is  a  strong  one,  Willie,  and  I  have  nothing 
wherewith  to  refute  it ;  and  so  all  that  I  can  do  is  to  see  if  there 


CAMERON    HALL.  335 

is  another,  specially  belonging  to  the  present  case,  which  may 
outweigh  it.  In  other  times  and  under  other  circumstances,  I 
should  perhaps  yield  to  your  entreaty  without  resistance  ;  but 
just  now,  you  must  yourself  acknowledge  that  I  have  good  grounds 
for  hesitating.  Suppose  now  that  I  should  give  you  your  child- 
wife,  what  would  you  do  with  her  ?  As  soon  as  you  are  suffi- 
ciently recovered,  you  will  go  back  into  the  army,  where  I  trust 
and  believe  that  you  intend  to  stay,  if  your  life  is  spared,  until 
this  war  is  over.  Meanwhile,  what  is  to  become  of  her  ?  You 
will  not  be  willing  to  leave  her  here,  outside  the  lines,  where  you 
cannot  hear  from  her;  and  if  you  take  her  away,  you  take  the 
child  from  home,  father,  and  sister,  and,  unable  to  take  care  of 
her  fourself,  she  is  left  to  the  care  of  strangers.  Think  of  her, 
Willie,  among  strangers.  You  yourself  know  how  unhappy  she 
would  be." 

"I  should  never,  Mr.  Cameron,  leave  Eva  among  strangers. 
She  should  never  leave  you  without  your  consent ;  and  then  I 
should  only  take  her  from  one  home  to  another.  She  should  go 
to  my  home  in  Alabama,  where  she  would  find  another  father, 
and  I  would  give  her,  too,  what  unfortunately  she  has  never 
known,  a  mother." 

He  paused  for  an  answer,  but  none  came,  and  in  a  tone  of  un- 
easiness he  continued  : 

"I  know  that  I  am  asking  a  great  deal,  Mr.  Cameron,  when  I 
ask  you  to  give  me  that  child,  as  you  call  her,  the  light  of  your 
heart  and  of  your  home.  My  own  great  love  for  her,  and  the 
painful  consciousness  that  she  is  now  indispensable  to  my  happi- 
ness, can  enable  me  to  know  better  than  anybody  else  what  it  is 
that  I  am  asking  of  her  father.  All  that  I  can  do,  sir,  is  to 
assure  you  from  the  depths  of  an  honest  heart  that  her  happiness 
shall  not  suffer  in  the  transfer.  To  make  her  happy,  as  happy  as 
she  has  been  in  her  father's  home,  shall  be  the  business  of  my 
life,  as  to  love  her  shall  be  its  pleasure. " 

*'  I  believe  it,  Willie.  It  is  not  a  doubt  of  this  that  makes  me 
hesitate  ;  nor  is  it  a  selfish  unwillingness  to  give  her  up.  How- 
ever dependent  I  may  be  upon  her  for  happiness,  I  know  that 
I  have  no  right  to  sacrifice  hers  to  mine ;  but  yet  as  her  father, 
Willie,  it  is  my  duty  to  use  my  superior  age  and  experience  in 
guarding  it,  and  not,  for  fear  of  making  two  young  people  tem- 
porarily uncomfortable,  to  jeopardize  the  happiness  of  both.  I 
am  afraid,  my  son,  that  you  will  have  to  be  satisfied  at  present 
with  the  grant  of  only  a  portion  of  your  request.  I  will  promise 
to  give  the  child  to  you,  but  not  just  now.  Let  her  father  take 
care  of  her  until  her  husband  can.     Will  that  do  ?" 

"Thank  you,  sir,  more  than  I  can  express,"  he  answered,  with 


336  CAMERON    HALL. 

his  blue  eyes  full  of  tears.  "  It  is  more  than  I  had  a  right  to  ex- 
pect, though  not  quite  all  that  I  asked.  She  told  me  that  she 
did  not  thiuk  you  would  consent  to  our  immediate  marriage,  and 
asked  me  to  agree  that  we  would,  like  obedient  children,  cheer- 
fully await  her  father's  time.  I  promised  to  do  it,  and  I  mean  to 
try,  Mr.  Cameron,  however  great  the  self-denial  may  be." 

"God  bless  the  child!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cameron,  earnestly, 
"that  is  just  like  her.  Willie,  she  deserves  all  the  happiness  at 
your  hands  that  you  can  give  her ;  and  if  you  will  let  her,  she  will 
be  your  sunbeam  as  she  has  been  mine.  No  man  knows,"  he 
added,  thoughtfully  and  sadly,  "  no  man  can  know  what  he  is 
doing,  when  he  asks  a  father  for  a  daughter,  especially  for  such 
as  mine.  God  help  my  lonely  old  age,  when  I  shall  have  given 
them  both  up !" 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  few  moments,  and  then  "Willie  said  : 

"I  trust,  Mr.  Cameron,  that  you  do  not  think  that  in  urging 
our  immediate  marriage,  I  am  thinking  only  of  myself  and  my 
own  happiness.  No,  sir,  I  love  her  far  too  well  for  that ;  but  I 
honestly  believe  that  hers,  as  well  as  mine,  would  be  most  pro- 
moted by  it.  We  are  married  in  heart  and  soul  now,  sir,  just  as 
much  as  we  will  be  when  Mr.  Derby  shall  have  pronounced  us 
man  and  wife.  We  could  not  be  more  anxious  about 'each  other 
then  than  we  shall  be  now;  the  separation  will  be  just  as  pain- 
ful now  as  it  could  be  after  we  were  married :  but  if  we  actually 
belonged  to  each  other  in  the  eyes  of  men  as  well  as  of  God,  there 
would  be  a  certain  feeling  of  security,  of  possession,  of  safety 
against  accident  or  peradventure,  that  would  go  far  toward  sus- 
taining both.  We  might  not  doubt  each  other;  we  might  and 
would  have  an  abiding,  implicit  faith  in  the  truthfulness  and  con- 
stancy of  each  other ;  and  yet,  sir,  in  the  thought  that  Eva  was  my 
own  wife,  that  nothing  but  death  could  separate  us,  there  would 
be  a  supporting  power  which,  it  seems  to  me,  that  you,  having 
once  been  a  young  husband  yourself,  ought  to  understand  and 
appreciate." 

"And  so  I  do,  my  son.  I  both  understand  your  feelings, 
and  sympathize  with  them,  for  I  am  not  yet  so  old  as  to  have 
forgotten  what  it  is  to  be  young  and  ardent.  But  since  I  have 
been  both  old  and  young,  and  have  had  the  ardor  of  one  tempered 
by  the  experience  of  the  other,  I  have  the  advantage  over  you. 
You  are  perfectly  honest  and  sincere  in  what  you  say,  and  you 
really  believe  that,  with  Eva  as  your  wife  instead  of  your  be- 
trothed, you  will  not  only  be  a  happier,  but  likewise  a  more  effi- 
cient soldier.     Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"I  don't  only  believe  it,  sir,  I  know  it." 

"  Now  listen  to  the  voice  of  experience,  Willie.     So  far  from 


CAMERON     HALL.  337 

being  a  spur  to  your  energies,  she  will  only  clog  them ;  so  far 
from  nerving  your  arm,  she  will  paralyze  it." 

''Never,  Mr.  Cameron,  never,  sir!"  exclaimed  Willie. 

"  Hear  me,  my  son.  You  have  heard  of  responsibility;  but  as 
yet  you  know  nothing  of  it  but  the  name.  Now,  the  moment  that 
you  marry  Eva,  you  will  assume  a  responsibility  of  whose  weight 
you  little  dream,  and  whose  burden  you  can  never  more  shake  off. 
It  matters  not  that  you  still  leave  her  with  her  father  to  be  taken 
care  of;  it  matters  not  that  you  may  be  satisfied  that  he  will  do 
it  as  well,  perhaps  better  than  you  could  yourself.  You  have 
constituted  yourself  her  protector ;  you  have  virtually  taken  it  oift 
of  her  father's  hands,  and  you  will  and  must  feel,  as  long  as  she 
lives,  that  the  responsibility  of  her  happiness,  of  her  protection, 
rests  upon  you.  Heretofore  you  have  been  free.  Ties  you  had 
at  home,  but  no  responsibilities,  and  your  tlioughts  and  attention 
were  given  to  your  duties  as  a  soldier.  Your  heart  was  unbur- 
dened ;  and  there  is  no  such  nerve  to  an  arm  as  a  light  heart. 
But  hereafter  you  would  be  hampered  and  fettered.  Anxiety  for 
your  wife  would  cloud  your  judgment  and  dim  your  perceptions  ; 
and  unless  you  were  more  of  a  man  and  a  patriot  than  most,  of 
our  sex,  more  governed  by  that  conscientious  motive  which  never 
allows  feeling  to  affect  the  performance  of  duty,  you  would  find 
your  interest  slacken  and  your  energies  fail." 

Willie  shook  his  head,  and  Mr.  Cameron  said,  smiling : 

"It  is  true,  my  sou,  although  you  cannot  see  it.  However,  I 
will  not  quarrel  with  you  for  not  seeing  things  through  my  spec- 
tacles, especially  in  the  present  case.  You  have  agreed  to  yield 
to  my  decision,  and  it  would  be  unreasonable  to  ask  more." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  think  that  I  am  the  unreasonable  one, 
Mr.  Cameron,  to  have  asked  so  much  of  you  ;  but  boys,  you  know, 
are  proverbial  for  large  demands,  and  impatient  for  immediate 
gratification." 

"  Yes,  my  son,  and  men  are  soon  taught,  by  the  discipline  of 
life,  that  immediate  gratification  is  the  exception,  and  not  the 
rule;  that  desire  and  enjoyment  are  most  frequently  separated  by 
a  wide  interval  of  toil  and  anxiety. — But  you  plunged  so  suddenly 
into  your  business  when  I  came  in,  that  you  did  not  even  give 
me  time  to  ask  if  you  are  better  this  morning." 

"I  am  sure,  sir,  that  I  am  no  worse,  though  still  exceedingly 
tired.  I  thought  that  a  little  indulgence,  this  morning,  might  be 
pardoned,  and  think  that  I  already  feel  better  for  the  rest.  I 
shall  get  up  now,  however,  and  go  down  stairs.  Where  is  Eva? 
I  have  not  even  heard  her  voice  this  morning,  and  that  is  un- 
natural." 

''  We  are  becoming  s(Tmewhat  accustomed  to  that  now,  Willie; 

29 


338  CAMERON    HALL. 

though  at  first  it  seemed,  indeed,  most  singular  to  see  her  moving 
about  the  house  almost  as  quietly  as  her  sister;  but  she  has  done 
it  ever  since  you  went  away.  I  suspected  from  the  first  that  you 
had  something  to  do  with  it,  and  I  did  not  think  it  quite  so  much 
a  matter  of  course  either,  as  she  did,  tliat  your  departure  should 
have  so  distressed  her.  When  I  came  up  stairs  just  now,  she  was 
at  the  pit  searching  for  flowers  to  deck  your  table  this  winter's 
day.     She  has  not  forgotten  that  Willie  loves  flowers." 

Julia  shrank  with  an  aching  heart  from  the  trial  that  was  before 
her ;  but  as  soon  as  she  had  seen  her  father  go  up  to  Willie's 
Toora,  she  called  Eva  away  from  the  pit  into  the  library. 

**Sit  down  here,  child,"  she  said,  "and  listen  to  me.  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

Eva  saw  the  pain  expressed  in  her  sister's  face,  and  cried  out, 
in  alarm  : 

"Oh,  sister!  what  is  the  matter?    Is  Willie  worse?" 

"No,  Eva,  Willie  is  better;  but  I  have  something  to  say  to  you 
about  him." 

She  paused  a  moment,  for  her  lip  quivered  and  her  voice  fal- 
tered ;  but  presently  she  went  on. 

"Eva,  you  know  that  George  has  disgraced  not  only  himself, 
but  father  and  sisters  as  well.  You  must  remember  that  George 
is  your  brother." 

"Well,  sister!"  she  replied,  in  astonishment  and  simplicity, 
"what  has  that  to  do  with  Willie  ?" 

"Perhaps,  child,"  said  Julia,  gently,  "if  Willie  knew  it,  he 
would  not  be  willing  to  marry  George's  sister.  You  must  tell 
him,  Eva." 

The  child  was  astonished.  She  sat  a  few  moments,  as  if  she 
had  been  stunned;  and  then,  hiding  her  face  in  her  sister's  lap, 
she  cried  out  in  a  voice  of  agony  that  went  to  Julia's  very  heart: 

"Oh,  sister,  that  is  not  my  fault!  I  am  not  to  blame  for  what 
George  has  done.     Why,  oh  why  must  it  blight  my  happiness  ?" 

Julia  tried  to  explain,  what  was  so  clear  to  herself,  that  the 
family  name  must  be  affected  by  the  conduct  of  every  individual 
member  of  it;  but  Eva  could  not  understand  it.  All  that  she 
could  then  know  or  feel  was,  that  she  and  Willie  miglit  after  all 
be  separated ;  and  when  once  that  dreary  thought  took  posses- 
sion of  her  mind,  and  she  fully  realized  it,  Julia  was  obliged  to 
stop  talking  altogether,  for  her  sobbing  sister  could  neither  hear 
nor  understand  any  more.  After  a  long  time,  she  sprang  up  sud- 
denly, and  exclaimed  with  energy: 

"  I  don't  believe  that  Willie  will  care  about  George  at  all !  He 
is  too  just  to  blame  me  for  George's  conduct !" 

"I  trust  so,  darling,"  apswered  her  'sister;  "but  Willie  must 


CAMERON    HALL.  339 

know  it,  Eva.  It  would  not  be  dealing  fairly  and  honestly  with 
him  to  marry  him  without  telling  him.  You  will  do  it,  won't 
you  ?" 

"Oh  no,  sister!"  she  answered,  shrinking.  "I  cannot  tell 
him.  I  am  perfectly  willing  for  him  to  know  it,  for  I  would  not 
deceive  him;  but  I  cannot  tell  him  myself  I  cannot  tell  Willie," 
she  added,  with  a  shudder,  "that  my  name  is  disgraced.  Oh  no, 
sister,  anything  but  that  I"  ^ 

Julia  groaned  involuntarily,  as  she  looked  at  her,  and  answered  : 

"  You  can  do  it  better  than  anybody  else,  Eva.  Besides,  it  is 
your  duty." 

"Oh,  sister,  please  don't  tell  me  that.  I  would  rather  do  any- 
thing else  in  the  world !" 

"  Yes,  Eva,  I  believe  that  you  would.  Duty  is  often  very  hard ; 
and  I  admit  that  it  is  particularly  so  in  this  case.  jNi  evertheless, 
you  ought  to  do  it,  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

This  was  about  as  much  as  Julia  generally  found  it  necessary 
to  say  to  her  sister;  so  she  kissed  her  now  and  went  away,  leav- 
ing her  to  think  about  her  duty,  and  make  up  her  mind  to  its 
performance.  Eva  sat  a  long  time  in  a  dreamy  state,  scarcely 
conscious  of  anything  except  a  leaden  weight  upon  her  heart; 
and  she  was  at  last  aroused  by  the  sound  of  her  father's  step 
coming  down  stairs,  and,  fearing  lest  Willie  might  be  with  him, 
she  hastily  escaped  to  her  own  room. 

When  Willie  came  down  into  the  library  it  was  empty,  but  he 
found  that  careful  hands  had  provided  for  his  comfort.  The  sofa 
was  near  the  fire,  and  the  little  chair  was  in  its  accustomed  place 
beside  it. 

As  he  glanced  around  the  room,  with  its  familiar  furniture  and 
home-like  aspect,  he  thought : 

"How  many  happy  hours  I  have  spent  here;  and  yet  they  are 
all  but  a  foretaste  of  the  happiness  that  awaits  me,  with  my  sweet 
child-wife  1  How  can  I  be  thankful  enough  for  such  a  gift !  God 
help  me  to  show  my  gratitude  for  the  blessing,  by  the  care  with 
which  I  guard  it  I" 

Eva  did  not  come ;  and  at  last,  tired  of  waiting,  he  rang  the 
bell,  and  sent  Lucy  for  her. 

She  soon  came,  with  a  sad  face,  and  tear-stained  cheeks,  and 
laggard  step. 

Willie  was  both  amazed  and  distressed. 

"Come  here,  Eva,"  he  said,  "and  sit  down  in  your  little  chair. 
But  first  arrange  my  pillows.  They  are  never  comfortable  until 
you  have  had  something  to  do  with  them." 

She  did  as  she  was  requested,  and  then  seated  herself  in  silence. 
Willie  drew  her  face  down  to  kiss  her,  saying,  with  a  smile ; 


340  CAMERON    HALL. 

"You  know  that  'we  are  nothing  but  children.'  Besides,  papa 
has  just  given  you  to  me.     You  belong  to  me,  now." 

She  drew  back,  and  replied,  with  a  burst  of  tears: 

"No,  Willie,  not  now." 

"Eva,"  he  exclaimed,  anxiously,  "what  is  the  matter?  What 
does  this — what  can  this  mean  ?" 

As  soon  as  she  could  speak,  she  told  him,  simply  and  in  a  few 
words.      When  she  had  finished,#he  said,  taking  her  hand  : 

"Eva,  you  are  not  George  ;  neither  are  you  responsible  for  his 
conduct.  He  has  done  enough  wrong  already  ;  he  must  not  and 
shall  not  interfere  with  our  happiness.     You  belong  to  me  still." 

She  looked  u,p  at  him  with  a  bright,  glad  smile  through  her 
tears.     He  kissed  her,  and  said : 

"You  are  mine,  Eva,  my  own.  Your  father  says  so,  and 
neither  George  nor  any  other  human  being  shall  take  you  from 
me.  And  now  listen,  we  are  neither  of  us  ever  to  speak  or  think 
of  George  again  wliile  we  live.     Do  you  hear  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  that  I  am  very  willing,  Willie.  The  truth  is,  that 
I  should  neither  have  thought  nor  spoken  of  him  now,  if  sister 
had  not  told  me  that  it  was  my  duty.  She  said  that  it  would  be 
wrong  to  marry  you  under  a  deception." 

"And  so  it  would,  Eva;  but  your  sister  did  me  injustice  when 
she  thought  that  it  could  affect  my  feelings  toward  you." 

"  She  did  not  say  that  it  would,  Willie,  but  only  that  perhaps 
it  might.  Are  you  sure,"  she  added,  with  a  slight  hesitation,  and 
with  an  expression  of  pain,  "  very  sure,  that  you  will  love,  will 
respect  me  just  as  much  as  you  did  before  ?  For  if  not,  Willie, 
I  cannot " 

"  Yes,  you  dear,  little,  silly  child,"  he  answered,  laughing,  and 
pushing  back  her  disordered  curls  from  her  face.  "I  am  'sure, 
very  sure,  that  I  will  love,  will  respect  you  just  as  much,'  and,  if 
possible,  a  little  more  than  I  did  before.  Are  you  satisfied 
now  ?" 

"Perfectly  satisfied,"  she  answered,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "  and," 
she  added,  with  a  smile,  "  perfectly  happy,  too,  Willie.  And  now 
tell  me,  what  did  papa  say  ?" 

"Just  what  you  said  he  would ;  that  our  age  was  his  only  ob- 
jection. He  has  given  you  to  me,  but  I  must  wait  a  little  while 
to  have  you  in  possession.  It  will  be  hard  to  wait,  Eva,  will  it 
not  ?" 

"  Yes,  Willie,  very  hard  for  me.  Sister  could,  if  she  were  in 
my  place,  wait  so  patiently  that  nobody  would  suspect  that"  she 
ever  wished  it  otherwise  ;  but  I  cannot.  I  shall  be  very  miserable 
when  you  are  gone.  It  was  hard  enough,"  she  added,  with  a 
smile,  "to  give  you  up  when  you  were  only  my  brother;   and, 


CAMERON    HALL.  341 

now  that  you  are  so  much  more,  I  don't  know  how  I  can  do  it 
at  all." 

"And  how  do  you  think  that  I  will  bear  to  be  separated  from 
you  ?  You  can  have  no  conception  of  the  weariness  of  those 
weeks  that  I  have  been  away  from  you.  For  awhile  your  daily 
letter  kept  me  up,  but  when  that  ceased,  it  was  intolerable  in- 
deed. And,  besides,  I  did  not  feel  then  that  I  had  any  right 
even  to  wish  for  you,  for  you  did  not  belong  to  me,  neither 
had  I  reason  to  hope  that  you  ever  would ;  but  now  that  you 
do,  now  that  I  have  a  better  right  to  you  than  anybody  else, 
I  do  not  know  how  I  will  bear  it  at  all.  As  to  going  back  to  the 
army,  that  seems,  indeed,  in  the  distant  future,  f  thought  that 
when  my  wound  began  really  to  heal,  and  I  could  see  it  grow 
better  from  week  to  week,  that  I  should  soon  be  myself  again ; 
but  I  am  still  strangely  weak,  much  more  so  even  than  I  imagined, 
until  I  undertook  to  come  here  on  horseback.  Hard,  active  ser- 
vice in  the  army,  with  employment  for  mind  and  body,  might  per- 
haps render  the  separation  tolerable ;  but  as  this  is  impossible  for 
some  time  to  come,  and  as  it  will  not  be  prudent  to  stay  here,  I 
would  like  to  take  you  as  my  wife  to  my  own  home,  and  let  you 
take  care  of  me  until  I  shall  be  able  to  rejoin  my  regiment.  How 
would  you  like  this,  Eva  ?" 

"Yery  much,  Willie.  Indeed,  I  would  rather  go  anywhere 
with  you  than  to  stay  without  you  ;  but  it  is  not  right  for  us  to 
be  indulging  any  such  idle  wishes.  Sister  would  think  that  we 
were  both  unreasonable  and  ungrateful,  and  ought  to  be  satisfied 
with  papa's  permission  to  love  each  other  now,  and  his  promise 
that  we  shall  one  day  belong  to  each  other." 

"And  your  sister  would  be  right,  Eva,"  he  answered.  "It  is 
both  unreasonable  and  ungrateful,  and  not  only  so,  but  it  is  incon- 
sisteut  with  that  life  of  Christian  submission  and  obedience  on  ' 
which  I  am  about  to  enter.  God  helping  me,  Eva,  I  will  do  so 
no  more  ;  I  will  wait  patiently  for  you."  He  was  silent  a  little 
while,  and  then  said;  "Eva,  when  may  I  see  Mr.  Derby?  Can 
you  not  send  for  him  to  come  out  this  afternoon  ?  He  must  bap- 
tize me  to-morrow,  if  he  thinks  that  I  am  fit." 

"  You  will  not  be  strong  'enough  to  go  to  town  to-morrow, 
Willie." 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  send  me  in  the  carriage.  We  must  not  delay 
it,  Eva.     Remember  how  I  was  hurried  off  before." 

"  I  will  go  and  send  for  Mr.  Derby  at  once,  if  you  say  so." 

"Yes,  if  you  please." 

She  went  out  and  sent  the  messenger,  and  when  she  came  back 
and  seated  herself,  Willie  took  her  hand  and  said,  seriously  : 

"  I  have  been  very  lonely,  as  I  told  you,  Eva,  since  I  left  you ; 

29* 


342  CAMERON    HALL. 

but  I  have  not  been  idle,  and  1  trust  that  my  time  has  been  pro- 
fitably spent.  I  have  studied  the  prayer-book  much,  especially 
the  baptismal  office,  I  like  that  word  '  soldier'  as  it  is  used  there. 
It  is  full  of  meaning  to  one  who  knows  from  experience  what  the 
soldier's  life  is.  To  do  duty  even  when  most  disagreeable ;  to 
obey  orders  when  you  don't  under.4and  them  ;  to  bear  privation 
without  complaint,  and  toil  with  cheerful  submission  ;  to  shoulder 
the  musket  and  march  when  most  you  long  to  rest ;  to  watch 
when  you  are  most  weary  ;  to  fight  when  you  are  ready  to  faint; — 
I  think,  Eva,  that  I  have  learned  somewhat  of  my  duty  as  Christ's 
soldier  by  being  a  soldier  to  my  country.  But  this  is  not  all. 
Hardship,  privation,  and  toil  only  sweeten  rest,  and  the  soldier 
who  has  fought  is  best  prepared  to  mingle  in  the  shout  of  victory. 
I  have  thought  many  times  of  my  glad  exultation  on  the  day  of 
Manassas,  when  I  heard  the  cry  of  victory.  How  my  heart 
swelled  and  bounded  and  throbbed,  even  when  I  lay  mangled  and 
bleeding  upon  the  ground,  and  thought  that  my  life  was  fast  ebb- 
ing away  with  my  blood  1  And  if  an  earthly  soldier  can  feel 
such  exultation  in  one  single  victory  that  he  has  helped  to  win, 
when  perhaps  he  mast  needs  fight  his  battle  right  over  again,  what 
must  be  the  feelings  of  the  Christian  soldier,  whose  battles  are  all 
fought,  whose  victories  are  all  won,  and  who  lays  aside  his  sword 
and  his  armor  to  enjoy  forever  the  peace  for  which  be  has  fought  I 
Yes,  Eva,"  he  added,  thoughtfully,  "I  believe  that  I  know  now 
what  it  means  to  be  Christ's  soldier !^^  After  a  slight  pause,  be 
added  :  "  Do  you  know,  Eva,  that  I  expect  you  to  help  me  much 
in  the  Christian  life  ?" 

"Oh,  no  !"  she  said,  shrinkingly,  "don't  expect  that,  Willie. 
You  will  help   me,   but,  indeed,  I   cannot   help   you.      Sister 
.could,  but  I  cannot." 

"  Yes,  Eva,  you  can,  and  you  will.  You  will  both  encourage 
and  influence  me  for  good." 

"I  will  try  my  best,  Willie;  but  you  must  not  expect  much 
from  me.  Sometimes  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  no  Christian  at  all, 
for  I  cannot  be  like  sister,  no  matter  how  much  I  try." 

"Of  course  you  cannot,  Eva,  for  (jod  did  not  make  you  alike. 
Your  dispositions  and  temperaments  are  altogether  different,  and 
these,  religion  cannot  alter.  Its  moral  principles  are  the  same, 
and  it  must  control  all  characters,  but  it  does  not  eradicate  our 
individual  nature  and  make  us  all  alike.  St.  Peter  and  St.  John 
were  both  Christian  men,  and  surely  no  two  ever  lived  who  were 
more  entirely  dissimilar.  I  think  that  there  is  quite  as  much  in- 
dividuality in  the  religion  of  people  as  there  is  in  their  faces,  and 
you  must  not  think  that  because  you  are  unlike  your  sister  you 
are  therefore  not  so  sincere  a  Christian." 


CAMERON    HALL.  343 

"  Sincere  I  believe  that  I  am,  Willie,  but  that  is  all  that  I  can 
say  for  myself;  but  sister  is  the  most  conscientious  person  that  I 
ever  saw.  if  she  is  once  convinced  that  anything  is  right,  and 
is  her  duty,  she  never  asks  herself  if  she  wants  to  do  it,  but  she 
goes  quietly  and  steadily  forward  until  it  is  done." 

"  I  believe  and  am  willing  to  acknowledge  all  that.  I  do  not 
wish  to  depreciate  your  sister,  for  I  should  be  incapable  of  ad- 
miring what  is  excellent,  and  also  most  ungrateful,  if  I  did  not 
love  and  respect  her.  But  what  I  insist  upon  is,  that  you  shall 
not  depreciate  yourself,  and  shall  not  think  that  you  cannot  be  a 
Christian  because  you  are  not  like  your  sister.  What  is  it  in 
yourself  that  you  find  fault  with  ?" 

"My  thoughtlessness  and  light-heartedness,  Willie.  Surely,  if 
I  reaJized  as  I  ought,  what  people  call  the  responsibilities  of  life, 
I  would  be  less  of  a  child  and  more  of  a  woman.  And  yet,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  woman,  nor  do  I  want  to  feel 
life's  responsibilities.  I  want  to  put  them  off  just  as  long  as  pos- 
sible. I  have  never  felt  any  more  care  or  anxiety  than  the  birds, 
and  I  wish  that  I  never  could  1  I  love  childhood,  with  its  free- 
dom from  care,  its  light  heart,  its  sanshine,  its  happiness.  Now 
I  am  getting  too  old  for  this.  I  am  approaching  womanhood, — 
indeed,  since  I  have  promised  to  be  a  wife  I  ought  to  have  al- 
ready become  a  woman, — and  it  must  be  unreasonable,  and  per- 
haps unchristian  for  me  still  to  cling  so  to  childhood,  still  to  dread 
and  to  shrink  from  that  burden  which  I  know  that  I,  as  well  as 
others,  must  bear." 

"It  is  not  unreasonable,  it  is  not  unchristian,  Eva,"  said 
Willie,  warmly.  "While  God  gives  you  sunshine,  enjoy  it; 
while  He  sees  best  not  to  burden  you  with  care,  do  not  seek  to 
burden  yourself.  Wait  His  time.  Your  Christian  obedience 
and  submission  will  show  themselves  by  accepting  the  burden  and 
the  responsibility  when  His  hand  lays  them  upon  you,  and  until 
then,  enjoy  your  freedom,  and  thank  Him  for  it.  And  as  to  your 
loving  childhood  and  clinging  to  it,  I  wish  that  you  always  would. 
Always  keep  the  same  childlike  spirit  and  temper  that  you  have 
now,  and  especially  preserve  it  in  your  religion.  Let  the  religion 
of  your  whole  life  be  that  of  childhood, — trustful,  loving,  docile, 
obedient,  and  it  must  be  acceptable  in  the  eyes  of  Him  who  has 
Himself  given  a  little  child  as  the  most  beautiful  exemplification 
of  Christian  character." 

"  Good  scriptural  doctrine,  Willie !"  said  Mr.  Derby,  coming  in. 
"  You  and  Eva  seem  to  preach  to  each  other  by  turns,  and  I  al- 
ways happen  to  come  in  too  late  for  anything  but  the  conclusion. 
I  am  glad  to  see  you  back  again,"  he  added,  shaking  his  hand, 
"but  sorry  to  find  you  still  on  the  sofa." 


344  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Yes,  sir,  still  here.  I  can  bear  it  with  tolerable  fortitude  ia 
this  place  and  in  this  company"  (with  a  glance  at  Eva),  "  but  any- 
where else,  I  assure  you,  sir,  that  my  slow  recovery  is  a  sore  trial 
of  patience.  But  you  must  have  come  very  rapidly,  or  else  the 
time  has  passed  very  pleasantly.  It  seems  to  me  but  a  very  short 
time  since  Eva  sent  for  you." 

"And  so  it  is.  The  messenger  met  me  on  the  road,  coming 
not  to  see  you,  for  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  here,  but  to 
look  after  my  young  parishioners.  That  one  sitting  beside  you 
there  has  been. sorely  in  need  of  pastoral  care  c^  late.  In  the 
first  place,  she  has  been  in  trouble;  and  although  as  I  did  not 
know  the  cause,  I  could  not  administer  the  comfort  that  she 
specially  needed,  yet  there  are  general  promises  and  general 
comforts,  alike  applicable  to  all  cases,  which  the  minister  may 
offer,  and  frequently  with  soothing  effect.  And  not  only  has  she 
needed  consolation  of  late,  but  reproof  as  well.  She  has  been  a 
naughty  girl,  Willie,  and  has  said  some  very  hard  things,  and 
made  some  very  wrong  wishes  about  the  Yankee  Vandals,  as  she 
calls  them." 

''  That  is  true,  Willie,"  she  said.  "  I  had  not  come  to  that 
part  of  my  confession  ;  but  I  had  not  forgotten  it.  I  intended  to 
tell  you  all  the  wrong  about  myself,  and  I  am  afraid  that  when  I 
had  finished  you  would  agree  with  me  that,  whatever  helpmate 
I  might  be  in  other  respects,  in  your  religious  life  I  would  be 
only  a  clog  and  a  burden." 

"  Clog  and  burden  you  can  never  be,  Eva  I  Do  you  know,  Mr. 
Derby,  that  this  young  parishioner  of  yours  has  been  given  to  me, 
and  that  I  have  built  large  hopes  of  improvement  in  temper  and 
character  upon  the  influence  and  example  of  my  wife  ?" 

"Oh,  Willie  I"  she  exclaimed,  blushing  to  her  temples,  "you 
must  not  talk  so  to  Mr.  Derby.  He  knows  me  too  well.  I  never 
feel  so  wicked  as  when  somebody  calls  me  a  Christian,  and  I 
never  realize  so  painfully  that  I  ought  to  be  something  besides 
the  child  that  I  am,  as  when  you  remind  me  that  I  am  to  be  your 
wife. " 

"  Never  mind,  Eva,  I  am  satisfied  with  you  just  as  you  are, 
and  that  is  sufl&cient ;  is  it  not,  Mr.  Derby  ?" 

"  Yes,  Willie,  if  you  are  satisfied,  nobody  else  has  a  right  to 
complain,  and  nobody  will,  until  you  take  the  child  away,  and 
then  there  will  be  a  general  rebellion." 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir,  that  you  will  not  rebel  for  a  long  time.  I 
am  not  to  take  her  yet.     Her  father  says  that  I  must  wait." 

"And  he  is  right,  my  son.  He  can  take  care  of  her,  while  you 
cannot." 

"  It  is  right,  Mr.  Derby,  but  it  is  hard.     If  I  had  her  with  me, 


CAMERON    HALL.  34 


my  present  exile  from  duty,  from  home,  and  from  the  Hall,  would 
be  tolerable.     As  it  is,  it  is  almost  martyrdom." 

"  Have  you  not  met  with  kindness  since  you  left  us,  Willie  ?" 

*' Kindness,  sir  1  I  have  met  with  nothing  else;  but  1  want 
society,  her  society.  Perhaps  I  would  have  borne  it  better  if  I 
had  been  farther  from  the  Hall.  You  know  that  it  is  more 
tolerable  to  have  pleasures  entirely  beyond  our  reach,  than  to 
have  them  almost  within  our  grasp,  and  yet  be  unable  to  catch 
them.  Sometimes  I  used  to  feel  sorry  that  I  had  ever  seen 
Cameron  Hall." 

"How  do  you  feel  about  that  now?"  asked  Mr.  Derby,  glanc- 
ing at  Eva. 

"  Thankful,  sir,  for  the  wound  that  nearly  cost  me  my  life ; 
thankful  for  the  accident  that  sent  me  to  Hopedale ;  and  thankful 
beyond  all  expression  for  my  stay  here.  Eva  and  I  expect  to  be 
grateful  for  this  as  long  as  we  live ;  is  it  not  so,  Eva?" 

"  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  be,  Willie,  and  I  hope  that  you  will  be 
also.  I  shall  try  very  hard  to  be  all  that  you  expect ;  but  I  am 
afraid  that  you  are  risking  much  when  you  place  your  happiness 
in  my  keeping.  The  truth  is  that  I  have  everything  to  learn.  I 
have  been  myself  taken  care  of  all  my  life,  and  have  never  known 
what  it  is  to  feel  that  anybody  was  dependent  upon  me  for  any- 
thing." 

''And  you  are  still  to  be  taken  care  of,  Eva,  just  as  much  as 
ever ;  and  if  you  have,  as  you  say,  everything  to  learn,  I  know 
that  you  will  be  an  apt  scholar.  Mr.  Derby,  you  must  promise 
now,  to  come  and  visit  us,  when  peace  comes  and  we  have  our 
own  home,  and  you  shall  see  for  yourself  what  a  model  wife  your 
parishioner  will  make." 

"I  hope  by  that  time,"  she  said,  laughing,  "to  have  taken 
some  lessons  from  sister  in  cooking,  for  at  present  I  have  about 
as  much  idea  of  it  as  Walter.  I  must  read  you  his  letter,  Willie, 
giving  his  experience  in  that  line,  and  let  you  see  what  splendid 
cooks  Cameron  Hall  can  send  out  into  the  world,  and  what  is  in 
store  for  you  in  future,  while  I  shall  be  learning." 

She  then  leaned  over,  and  whispered : 

"  I  will  go  now,  and  leave  you  to  talk  to  Mr.  Derby.  When 
you  want  me  again,  send  for  me." 

As  she  closed  the  door,  the  minister  said : 

"  Happy  child  I  May  her  heart  never  know  a  cloud  I  No, 
that  is  not  the  best  wish  for  her  either.  May  she  only  know  such 
as  may  prepare  her  for  the  unclouded  sunshine  of  heaven  !" 

"  I  will  try  hard,  sir,"  said  Willie,  "  to  make  her  happy." 

"You  must,  my  son.  Should  her  life  be  dark,  see  to  it  that 
you  do  not  help  to  make  it  so." 


346  CAMERON    HALL. 

"I  will,  Mr.  Derby,"  he  answered,  earnestly.  "It  shall  be  my 
business  to  share  with  her  the  burden  of  life.  Do  you  know,  sir," 
he  added,  "that  I  shrink,  just  as  much  as  she  does,  from  the 
thought  of  burden  and  responsibility  being  laid  upon  her?  The 
idea  is  unnatural.  Of  all  the  beings  that  I  ever  saw,  she  is  most 
associated  with  sunshine,  and  whenever  I  think  of  her,  it  is  as  if 
a  ray  of  light  had  suddenly  shot  across  my  heart.  She  was  not 
made  to  bear  trouble  and  sorrow." 

"  That  may  be,  Willie  ;  but  you  must  yourself  take  hold  of  the 
truth  that  you  were  urging  upon  her  when  I  came  in.  God  is 
pledged  to  put  no  heavier  burden  upon  her  than  she  requires, 
and  than  He  will  help  her  to  bear;  and  until  He  sees  best  to  do 
it,  you  as  well  as  she  ought  to  rejoice  in  the  brightness  of  her 
young  life,  and  anticipate  for  her  nothing  else.  Let  the  future 
alone ;  God  will  take  care  of  that." 

In  his  conversation  with  Willie  about  his  baptism,  Mr.  Derby 
had  nothing  new  either  to  hear  or  to  advise.  They  had  talked 
long  and  often  upon  the  subject,  and  he  would  not  have  hesitated 
long  before  to  administer  the  rite  of  which  Willie  was  afraid  that 
he  was  unworthy. 

"Eva,"  he  said,  "  thinks  that,  in  my  present  condition,  it  would 
be  right  to  be  baptized  here,  and  that  you  would  not  object  to 
it;  but  as  it  is  possible  for  me  to  go  to  church,  I  prefer  to  do  it." 

"  That  is  right.  It  seems  a  small  matter ;  but  even  in  things 
seemingly  insignificant,  I  would  prefer  to  follow  the  church's 
guidance.  The  sacraments  belong  to  God's  house,  and  while 
provision  is  made  to  administer  them  elsewhere,  when  need  re- 
quires, still,  when  it  is  practicable,  the  church  is  the  proper 
place.  I  will  meet  you  there,  if  you  say  so,  to-morrow  morning 
at  eleven  o'clock." 

"  Very  well,  sir.  My  conscience  will  be  greatly  relieved  when 
it  is  done,  for  I  have  had  many  sharp  upbraidings  since  I  went 
away  for  having  gone  without  it." 

"  I  too  have  regretted  it  much,  Willie ;  and  have  been  afraid 
that  perhaps  I  did  not  do  my  whole  duty.  I  have  sometimes 
thought,  that  if  I  had  been  more  faithful  in  teaching  and  urging, 
you  would  have  yielded  long  ago." 

"A  most  unnecessary  self-reproach,  I  assure  you,  sir.  If  yoa 
had  not  done  your  duty  so  faithfully,  the  probability  is  that  I 
would  not  have  seen  mine  at  all.  May  God  help  me  to  be  as 
faithful  in  doing,  as  you  have  been  in  teaching !" 

After  a  little  while,  Mr.  Derby  said : 

"I  suppose,  Willie,  that  some  of  these  days  you  will  want  me 
to  perform  another  service  for  you, — one  in  which  Eva  will  not  be 
a  witness,  but  a  participator." 


CAMERON    HALL.  3^7 

"Yes,  sir;  and  I  wish  that  I  thought  it  would  be  very  soon." 

"  So  do  I,  Willie,  for  your  sakes.  I  will  officiate  next  time  all  the 
more  cheerfully  from  having  done  so  now.  I  can  the  more  readily 
give  Eva  into  your  keeping ;  but  I  should  not  be  willing  to  give 
her  to  any  but  a  Christian  man.  With  her  disposition,  so  loving, 
so  trusting,  so  yielding,  the  influence  of  any  other  might  seriously 
injure  her  Christian  character." 

"May  I  come  in?"  asked  Eva,  opening  the  door  and  putting 
her  head  in. 

"Yes,  come,"  said  Willie.  "You  need  not  have  gone  at  first, 
for  Mr.  Derby  and  I  had  nothing  to  say  that  you  might  not  have 
heard." 

"  Eva,  where  is  Julia  ?"  asked  the  minister. 

"  She  is  making  something  nice  for  Willie's  dinner,  Mr.  Derby. 
I  went  out  to  help  her  just  now,  but  I  think  that  she  could  have 
dispensed  with  my  assistance.  My  thoughts  were  in  the  library, 
instead  of  the  pantry,  and  I  broke  too  many  eggs,  and  did  not 
weigh  enough  sugar,  and  made  mistakes  generally,  until  at  last 
she  sent  me  away.  Indeed,  Willie,  I  am  sorry  for  you;  you 
have  chosen  such  a  useless  child." 

"Don't  waste  your  sympathy,  Eva.     I  am  satisfied." 

"  I  suppose,  children,"  said  Mr.  Derby,  "  that  you  are  sur- 
prised that  I  should  have  expressed  no  astonishment  at  what 
you  have  told  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Eva,  "  you  take  it  very  quietly ;  just  as  if  it 
was  nothing  new." 

"Nor  is  it,  my  daughter.     I  saw  it  three  months  ago." 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Derby,  not  so  long  ago  as  that  1  Even  Willie 
did  not  know  it  then  I" 

"  That  may  be ;  but,  nevertheless,  I  saw  plainly  enough  what 
was  coming.  And  as  to  yourself,  Eva,  you  are  altogether  too 
transparent  for  concealment." 

"  I  have  never  tried  it,  Mr.  Derby,  because  I  had  nothing  that 
I  wanted  to  hide.  I  did  not  suspect  the  nature  of  my  feelings 
toward  Willie ;  perhaps  if  I  had,  I  would  have  tried  to  conceal 
them,  as  I  shall  do  now." 

"A  most  successful  beginning  you  have  made,  Eva,"  replied 
the  minister,  laughing.  "  Why,  child,  I  saw  how  matters  stood 
the  very  instant  that  I  came  into  the  room." 

"  Of  course  you  did,  because  I  intended  that  you  should ;  but 
I  do  not  mean  that  all  the  world  shall  know  that  Willie  and  I  are 
going  to  be  married.  I  will  try  to  keep  my  secret,  though  I  am 
afraid  that  I  cannot,  for  Uncle  John  always  declared  that  to  tell 
me  a  secret  was  just  like  publishing  it." 

"And  why  try  to  make  a  secret  of  our  engagement,  Eva?" 


348  CAMERON    HALL. 

asked  Willie.  "If  we  were  married,  we  would  not  object  to  its 
being  known ;  why  try  to  hide  the  fact  that  one  day  we  intend  to 
be  ?  This  mystery  and  secrecy  about  engagements  were  always 
incomprehensible  to  me." 

"  It  is  only  because  that,  under  such  circumstances,  persons 
are  always  talked  about,  and  this  is  disagreeable,  especially  to  a 
lady." 

"  Well,  Eva,  it  may  be  that  you  ladies  have  different  notions 
and  feelings  on  this  subject  from  our  less  shrinking  sex ;  but  if 
I  know  myself,  I  would  have  no  objection  for  the  whole  world  to 
know  this  minute  that  I  intended  to  marry  you." 

"To  tell  the  truth,  Willie,"  she  answered,  laughing,  "I  feel  so 
too;  and  yet  I  am  afraid  that  this  is  not  a  proper  feeling.  I  hope 
that  I  am  not  unwomanly,  above  all,  I  trust  that  I  am  not  want- 
ing in  maidenly  reserve ;  but  yet  I  do  not  feel  that  I  should  be 
distressed,  or  even  greatly  annoyed,  if  our  engagement  should  be 
known.  Of  course  I  do  not  expect  to  publish  it,  nor  on  the  other 
hand  can  I  deny  it." 

"That  is  right,  my  daughter,"  said  Mr.  Derby,  "and  your 
frankness  and  truthfulness  are  neither  unwomanly  nor  unmaid- 
enly." 

The  day  passed  oflf  pleasantly ;  and  in  the  afternoon  Uncle 
John  came.  He  announced  his  arrival,  as  he  generally  did,  by 
walking  into  the  library,  where  he  found  the  whole  circle.  He 
looked  troubled  and  anxious;  but  his  eye  brightened  with  pleas- 
ure as  he  comprehended  at  a  glance  the  happiness  of  the  two 
young  hearts.     Eva  sprang  up  to  meet  him,  and  he  whispered : 

"  So,  your  brother  has  come  back,  Eva  1" 

"Not  my  brother  now,  Uncle  John.  Something  more  than 
thatl" 

"Oh,  ho  !    I  thought  so,  my  daughter." 

He  then  congratulated  Willie  on  his  return  to  his  sister. 

Willie  looked  perplexed,  and  said  he  did  not  understand,  and 
Uncle  John  replied  : 

"You  must  know  that  this  curly-headed  damsel  here,  not  three 
weeks  ago,  was  really  fretted  and  worried " 

"Now,  Uncle  John,"  interrupted  Eva,  "be  careful — don't  ex- 
aggerate." 

"I  repeat,"  said  Uncle  John,  "she  was  really  fretted  and  wor- 
ried, if  not  positively  angry  with  me,  for  being  in  the  slightest 
degree  incredulous,  when  she  told  me  that  she  loved  Willie  with 
a  sister's  love,  the  same  in  kind  and  almost  in  degree  that  she 
felt  for  Walter." 

"  She  was  sincere,  sir,  for  she  told  me  the  same ;  and  unfortu- 
nately for  my  comfort,  I  was  not  so  incredulous  as  you  were.     I 


CAMERON    HALL.  349 

am  happy  to  find,  however,  that  she  was  mistaken,  for  that  sister's 
love  with  which  she  promised  to  favor  me  has  kept  me  very  un- 
happy since  I  left  her,  I  always  thous^ht  that  when  a  man  offered 
a  woman  his  heart,  with  all  its  strong,  deep  feelings,  and  asked 
hers  in  return,  there  could  be  no  more  refined  cruelty  than  to 
offer  him,  in  place  of  what  he  asked,  cold  friendship  or  a  sister's 
love.     He  asked  bread,  and  she  gave  him  a  stone !" 

A  pang  shot  through  Julia's  heart,  as  she  thought : 

"It  was  not  what  I  felt,  but  it  was  what  I  offered  in  return  for 
a  love  as  deep  and  fervent  as  was  ever  given  a  woman.  It  was 
what  I  sent  him  away  with,  and  what  he  has  had  to  be  contented 
with  ever  since — if,  indeed^  he  has  not  finally  succeeded  in  over- 
coming a  passion  which  seemingly  met  with  so  poor  a  requital." 

"Well,  Willie,"  said  Uncle  John,  "I  am  glad  that  your  affec- 
tion has  met  with  a  more  satisfactory  return  than  the  sister's 
love  which  was  at  first  offered.  I  am  both  glad  and  sorry  to  see 
you  children  so  happy." 

"Why,  Uncle  John  ?"  exclaimed  several  voices. 

"Because  the  pleasure  must  be  short-lived.  There  is  another 
rumor  in  town  of  an  approaching  raiding-party ;  and  from  what 
I  can  hear,  it  seems  reliable." 

"I  scarcely  think  it  can  be,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Derby,  "for  there  is 
no  temptation  to  visit  us  again  in  this  vicinity.  The  neighboring 
country  is  already  pretty  well  devastated." 

"  The  rumor  may  not  be  true,"  replied  Uncle  John  ;  "but  so 
we  all  thought  before,  and  if  I  were  in  Willie's  place,  daylight 
to-morrow  morning  would  not  find  me  here." 

"Oh,  Uncle  John  !"  exclaimed  Eva,  "he  cannot  go.  He  has 
not  been  able  even  to  sit  up  to-day." 

"Very  well,  my  daughter,  he  must  decide  for  himself." 

"Of  course,  I  must  go,  Eva,"  said  Willie.  "You  would  not 
have  me  stay?  Don't,  Eva,  please  don't,"  he  whispered,  aa  he 
saw  the  storm  coming ;  "  wait  until  to-morrow,  when  I  shall  be 
gone." 

"  I  must  go  away  for  a  little  while,  Willie,"  she  said,  attempt- 
ing to  rise;  "I  will  come  back  again  presently." 

"Xo,"  he  answered,  laying  his  hand  upon  her  to  detain  her, 
*'  you  must  not  go.  You  must  stay  by  me  as  long  as  I  am  here, 
and  try  and  be  your  own  bright  self.    Won't  you  ?" 

"I  will  try,"  she  answered,  choking  back  her  tears,  and  seating 
herself  again. 

Uncle  John  was  now  kept  busy  answering  questions,  which 
were  rapidly  asked  by  one  and  another ;  but  as  is  usual  in  such 
cases,  he  had  little  satisfactory  information  to  give. 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Willie,  "do  you  think  that  I  ought  to  go 

30 


350  CAMERON    HALL. 

away  at  once,  or  might  I  safely  stay  until  morning  ?  If  T  c^onld, 
I  should  like  to  do  so  very  much,  for  I  am  still  so  tired  froin  my 
journey,  that  I  very  much  doubt  if  I  could  ride  all  night." 

"I  scarcely  know  what  to  advise,  my  son.  Perhaps,  as  yon 
have  just  come,  and  nobody  knows  that  you  are  here,  you  mii-^ht 
venture  to  stay  until  daylight;  but  I  would  certainly  try  and  get 
away  by  that  time.     How  did  you  come  ?" 

"On  horseback,  sir." 

"  Well,  it  is  very  evident  that  you  cannot  go  back  that  way. 
"We  must  devise  some  other  way  for  you  to  travel,  and  it  must  be 
arranged  at  once  ;  we  have  no  time  to  lose.  If  the  Yankees  had 
not  taken  my  horse,  I  would  drive  you  myself  in  my  buggy." 

"Oh,  Uncle  John  !"  exclaimed  Eva,  "that  would  be  the  very 
thing  I  I  would  be  willing  for  him  to  go,  if  you  would  go  along 
to  take  care  of  him ;  but,  indeed,  he  is  not  able  to  ride  on  horse- 
back.    Put  his  horse  that  he  rode  to  your  buggy." 

"And  how  would  I  get  the  buggy  back,  my  daughter?" 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Julia,  "perhaps  I  could  devise  a  plan." 

"Which  will  doubtless  be  a  good  one,"  he  answered. 

"I  have  determined  to  send  Rebel  to  the  army.  Now  if  any 
way  can  be  devised  to  send  him  from  the  place  where  Willie  is 
going,  you  might  put  him  to  your  buggy,  and  Bob  shall  go  along 
on  a  mule,  which  you  can  drive  back." 

"That  would  do  very  well,"  answered  Uncle  John. 

"But,  sister,"  said  Eva,  "I  want  Willie  to  take  Dixie  away 
with  him.    She  will  be  useful  to  him  when  he  i"  able  to  exercise." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Julia,  "  that  will  be  all  the  better,  for  we  can 
put  both  the  horses  to  the  barouche,  which  will  be  much  more 
comfortable  for  Willie  than  a  buggy;  and  Bob  will  take  two 
mules  instead  of  one,  for  Uncle  John  to  drive  home." 

"And  so,  girls,"  said  Uncle  John,  "you  are  going  to  part  with 
your  riding  horses  ?" 

'^es,  sir,"  answered  Julia.  "I  hope  that  they  will  both  go 
into  the  Confederate  service." 

"  Who  is  to  have  Rebel  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  told  Eva  that  she  might  give  him  away." 

"I  am  going  to  send  him  to  Dr.  Beaufort,  Uncle  John.  I 
would  give  him  to  Willie,  but  I  would  rather  that  he  should  have 
mine." 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Julia,  "do  you  think  that  you  can  devise 
any  way  of  sending  him  to  the  army?" 

He  thought  a  moment,  and  then  said  : 

"  I  have  positively  a  great  mind  to  put  him  on  the  cars,  and 
run  down  to  the  army  myself,  and  give  him  into  Charles's  own 
hands.     I  would  like  to  see  him  and  Walter." 


CAMERON    HALL.  351 

"Oh,  Uncle  John,  how  I  wish  you  would  I"  said  Julia,  earn- 

Bstly. 

"  Do  you,  my  daughter  ?"  he  asked,  looking  at  her. 

She  colored  a  little,  as  she  answered ; 

*'Yes,  sir,  very  much." 

*'Then,"  he  said,  "I  will  go." 

"Indeed,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  "it  would  be  doing  us  a  great 
favor.  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  me  for  you  to  see  Walter,  and 
find  out  how  the  boy  is  getting  on,  and  what  he  needs." 

"And  as  to  myself,  Uncle  John,"  said  Willie,  "I  have  no  words 
to  express  my  gratitude  for  the  plan  which  you  and  Miss  Julia 
have  arranged,  both  for  my  physical  comfort  and  for  the  pleasure 
of  your  society.  I  had  both  a  lonely  and  a  painful  ride  when  I 
came  here." 

"  You  must  have  had,  Willie,  and  I  promise  that  you  shall  go 
away  much  more  comfortably  than  you  came.  And  so  we  will 
consider  the  arrangement  made,  and  to-morrow  morning  we  will 
leave  at  daylight.  Julia,  can  you  give  us  a  cup  of  coffee  so  early 
as  that?" 

"  Certainly,  sir ;  and  not  that  only,  but  a  nice  breakfast  besides. 
Uncle  John,"  she  added,  "will  you  do  something  for  me  ?" 

"With  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  my  daughter." 

"  You  and  Willie  have  very  little  baggage.  If  I  pack  a  box 
of  nice  things,  will  you  not  take  it  to  Walter,  and — to  Walter?" 

"  To  Walter  and  to  Dr.  Charles,  Uncle  John,"  interposed  Eva. 
"  If  sister  sends  a  box,  I  insist  upon  Dr.  Charles  having  a  part  of 
the  contents." 

"That  must  be  as  your  sister  pleases,  Eva,"  replied  Uncle 
John.  "I  shall  do  just  what  she  requests.  What  do  you  say, 
Julia?" 

"I  would  preft-Tit,"  she  answered. 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  "you  will  please  tell  Dr.  Charles,  that 
as  I  have  given  my  horse  to  Willie,  and  he  does  not  need  an- 
other, I  would  rather  that  he  should  have  Rebel  than  anybody 
else." 

"A  message,  Eva,"  replied  Uncle  John,  laughing,  "more  truth- 
ful than  agreeable.  Perhaps  your  present  might  be  more  accept- 
able, if  you  do  not  send  word  that  you  give  it  because  somebody 
else  does  not  want  it." 

"  Well,  then,  you  can  make  the  message  to  suit  yourself;  for  I 
am  too  much  bewildered  just  now  to  do  anything  right.  Sister, 
you but  where  is  she?"  she  asked,  looking  round. 

"  Gone,"  replied  her  father ;   "she  left  the  room  a  minute  ago." 

"Yes,  Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  smiling  even  in  her  sadness, 
"such  a  stir  as  there  will  be  now  in  that  kitchen  I    One  will  be 


352  CAMERON    HALL. 

beating  biscuit,  another  parching  coffee,  another  making  bread, 
another  preparing  a  turkey  to  roast;  and  sister  herself  will  be 
stuflBng  a  ham.  The  Yankees  kindly  left  us  four  turkeys  and  six 
hams — and  one  of  each  will  be  sure  to  go.  Presently  she  will  be 
calling  for  me  to  come  and  make  some  cake,  and  get  some  pickles 
and  preserves  ready  for  packing." 

"That  is  not  probable,"  said  Willie,  "if  you  told  the  truth  on 
yourself  this  morning,  Eva;  for  if  you  should  spoil  the  cake  as  you 
did  then,  and  put  the  preserves  into  the  pickle  jars  because  your 
thoughts  were  somewhere  else,  you  would  prove  a  hinderance  in- 
stead of  a  help." 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Eva,  "sister  will  work  herself  to  death  to- 
night. She  will  cook  until  daylight,  and  will  have  things  nice 
enough  and  abundant  enough  for  a  prince.  We  have  not  a 
great  deal  in  the  way  of  provision  left  at  the  Hall  now ;  but 
Walter  and  the  doctor  will  never  know  it  if  they  judge  from  that 
box." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  Eva.  I  know  that  she  will  send  an  abund- 
ant supply,  and  I  know,  too,  that  she  would  be  more  than 
repaid  for  her  trouble  if  she  could  see  the  poor  hungry  fellows 
make  acquaintance  with  her  dainties.  That  sight  will  be  one 
of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  my  visit  to  the  army.  But  I  must  be 
going." 

"And  so  must  I,"  said  the  minister.  "  I  am  very  sorry,  Willie, 
to  see  you  hurried  off  again  in  this  way." 

"Mr.  Derby,"  he  answered,  "  I  cannot  consent  to  go  again  un- 
baptized.     Will  you  do  it  to-night?" 

"  Certainly,  my  son,  if  you  wish  it.  Of  course,  then,  the  service 
must  be  at  home." 

■  "  No,   sir.     If  it  is  possible,  I  would  still  prefer  it  at  the 
church.     Do  you  think  it  would  be  practicable,  Mr.  Cameron  ?" 

"  Practicable  I  certainly,  Willie  ;  but  it  must  be  done  very 
quietly.  I  do  not  wish  it  to  be  known  that  you  are  here  to- 
night." 

"  It  need  not  be  known,"  replied  Mr.  Derby.  "  Let  him  come 
to  town  after  dark  and  drive  to  my  house,  and  we  will  walk  from 
there  to  the  church,  and  nobody  need  know  anything  about  it." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Cameron,  "that  will  do." 

"Uncle  John,"  said  Willie,  "ask  Agnes  and  her  mother  to 
meet  us  at  Mr.  Derby's.     I  would  like  to  have  them  present." 

When  they  reached  the  door,  Eva  could  not  help  laughing  in 
spite  of  her  sorrow,  as  she  exclaimed: 

"  There,  Uncle  John,  I  told  yon  so  !  Don't  you  hear  that 
beating  going  on  in  the  kitchen  ?  Those  biscuits  are  being  made 
in  a  fit  of  enthusiasm,  and  poor  Aunt  Sally's  arms  will  ache 


CAMERON    HALL.  •    353 

when  she  is  done.  I  wish  that  you  could  be  behind  the  scenes 
to  hear  sister  encourage  her  to  beat  hard  and  make  them 
nice." 

Her  momentary  cheerfulness  was  gone  in  an  instant  when  she 
saw  Mr.  Derby  and  Uncle  John  actually  going,  and  was  re- 
minded of  that  other  parting  which  awaited  her  on  the  morrow. 
Uncle  John  saw  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  said  kindly,  as  he  took 
her  hand : 

"Cheer  up,  my  daughter,  and  try  to  bear  it  for  Willie's  sake. 
He  needs  all  your  help  to  enable  him  to  keep  up  his  spirits.  His 
trial,  Eva,  is  a  sorer  one  even  than  yours." 

"I  will  try,"  she  answered,  as  two  tears  fell  upon  his  hand; 
"but  it  is  hard,  Uncle  John,  very  hard.  You  don't  know  how 
hard  it  is. " 

"Yes  I  do,  my  child.  Uncle  John  knows  all  about  it, — all 
about  it,  Eva,"  he  repeated,  thoughtfully. 

When  they  were  gone,  she  returned  to  Willie,  in  the  library. 

"Here,  Eva,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  little  chair,  "bring  it 
up  close  to  the  sofa  and  sit  down.  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

"Well,  Willie,"  she  said,  after  waityjg  a  minute  or  two  for 
him  to  begin.  "  I  am  ready.  What  is  it  that  you  want  to 
say  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  make  me  a  promise.  Our  separa- 
tion just  now  will  be  very  hard  to  bear,  harder  for  me  in  my 
loneliness  and  weakness,  than  for  you  in  your  accustomed  health 
and  at  home ;  but  we  have  both  promised  to  acquiesce  in  your 
father's  decision.  Now,  to  acquiesce  is  not  to  yield  repiningly 
and  complainingly  to  something  against  which  we  find  it  useless 
to  struggle ;  it  is  to  submit  cheerfully,  and  this  is  now  our  duty. 
I  want  you  to  promise  that  you  will  try  hard  to  bear  up  and  be 
your  bright  cheerful  self,  and  still  your  father's  sunbeam,  as  he 
told  me,  the  other  day,  that  you  had  always  been.  We  must  be 
hopeful  and  thankful,  Eva:  thankful  for  the  good  Providence 
that  has  permitted  us  to  know  and  love  each  other,  and  hopeful 
that  the  same  goodness  will  watch  over  and  preserve  us  for  each 
other.     This  is  right,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,  Willie,  it  is  right,  but  hard  to  do;  but  because  it  is 
right,  and  you  wish  it,  I  will  try." 

"Another  thing,  Eva.  You  have  promised  to  be  my  wife,  and 
a  wife  means  a  helpmate.  Of  course,  I  know  nothing  as  yet  of 
a  wife's  influence,  but  I  conceive  it  to  be  powerful,  indeed  almost 
irresistible,  upon  a  man  for  good  or  evil.  At  any  rate,  I  am 
persuaded  that  loving  you  as  I  do,  you  will  always  control  my 

30* 


354  CAMERON    HALL. 

actions  in  a  great  degree ;  and  I  want  yoa  to  control  them  in 
the  right  direction  and  encourage  me  to  do  what  is  right.  Now 
your  father  urged,  as  an  objection  to  our  marriage  at  present,  that 
anxiety  and  distress  at  being  separated  from  you  would  impair 
my  energies,  and  tempt  me  to  neglect  my  duty;  and  so  it  would, 
if  I  should  leave  you  behind,  unwilling  for  me  to  go,  throwing 
every  obstacle  in  my  way,  and  persuading  me  that  my  duty  was 
to  you  and  not  to  my  country.  You  are  promised,  Eva,  to  a 
soldier;  should  this  war  last  so  long  that  our  patience  shall  be 
exhausted,  and  we  cannot  wait  any  longer,  you  will  marry  a  sol- 
dier, one  who  purposes,  if  he  has  health  and  strength,  to  stay  in 
the  army  until  the  war  is  over,  and  (I  trust)  the  South  is  free. 
Now,  you  must  help  me  to  be  faithful  to  my  duty.  Distressed 
you  must  and  ought  to  be  to  give  me  up :  I  would  not  have  you 
otherwise ;  but  I  would  like  to  see  my  wife  bear  up  under  it  like 
a  true  woman,  such  a  wife,  such  a  woman  as  it  would  be  a  privi- 
lege to  fight  for.     Will  you,  darling?" 

"I  will  try,  Willie." 

"  One  thing  more.  Whenever  I  shall  be  separated  from  you, 
both  now  and  when  I  am  in  the  army  again,  always  write  me 
cheerful  letters.  There  ^ill  be  enough  that  is  depressing  around 
me ;  let  the  voice  from  home  and  from  you  dispel,  instead  of 
deepening  the  cloud.  Let  me  look  forward  to  your  letters  as 
the  prisoner  does  to  the  sunlight,  and  let  my  soul  drink  in  their 
contents  like  a  refreshing  draught.     Will  you  ?" 

"  I  promise,  Willie." 

"  Once  more.  This  night,  when  I  shall  have  made  those  solemn 
vows,  we  will  be  bound  together  by  a  tie  holier  even  than  that 
which  shall  make  us  husband  and  wife.  You  too,  Eva,  have 
made  those  same  vows.  Let  us  see  to  it  that  we  each  help  the 
other  to  keep  them.  Then  we  can  be  sustained  in  all  our  separa- 
tion by  'a  reasonable,  religious,  and  holy  hope,'  that  our  bond  of 
union  will  outlast  this  brief  life,  and,"  he  added,  thoughtfully  and 
sadly,  "that  if  our  Father  should  see  best  soon  to  sever  our  love 
here,  it  will  be  renewed  in  that  other  home,  where  separation  and 
anxiety  are  alike  unknown." 

Eva  fairly  broke  down  now,  and  burying  her  face  in  her  hands, 
all  her  promises  of  restraint  and  self-control  were  swept  away  in 
a  moment. 

Willie  watched  her  in  silent  sorrow.  He  had  rather  thought 
aloud  than  spoken,  and  his  words  had  been  involuntary,  as  he 
remembered  the  thousand  dangers  to  which  he  was  daily  ex- 
posed. 

After  awhile  she  looked  up,  her  lashes  still  wet  with  tears,  and 
said,  in  a  low  earnest  voice : 


CAMERON    HALL.  355 

"  Willie,  if  God  should  take  you,  I  only  pray  that  He  will  not 
leave  me.     I  cannot  live  without  you  now." 

His  own  eyes  were  dim  as  he  answered,  fervently: 

**  May  God  in  his  mercy  spare  us  to  each  other !" 

They  sat  in  silence  a  long  time.  The  shadows  of  the  waning 
winter  day  were  deepening,  and  the  cheerful  blaze  of  the  fire  had 
died  out,  leaving  only  the  glowing  coals  to  lighten  the  room. 
Eva  leaned  her  face  upon  her  hand  and  gazed  steadily  into  the 
fire,  as  if  she  found  there  the  object  of  her  painful  and  anxious 
thoughts;  and  Willie  looked  just  as  steadily  at  her  face,  from 
which  the  careless  happiness  of  childhood  was  all  gone,  and 
where  in  its  stead  was  plainly  written  the  intense  anxiety  of  the 
woman.     Willie  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Forgive  me,  Eva,  for  what  I  said  just  now.  I  ought  not  to 
have  done  it.  God  knows,  that  I  never  design  by  word  or  deed 
to  cast  a  shade  upon  your  face  or  heart.  Come,"  he  added, 
cheerfully,  "dry  those  tears  and  brighten  up  now.  I  don't  want 
to  remember  you  as  sorrowful  and  tearful;  and  especially  unwill- 
ing am  I  to  feel  that  I  have  caused  it.  Let  me  tell  you  of  my 
Southern  home ;  of  the  mother  and  the  other  father  that  will 
welcome  you  there ;  of  the  brothers  and  sisters  that  I  will  give 
you;  of  the  camelias  and  oleanders  and  cape-jasmines  that 
will  grow  for  you  without  the  shelter  of  hot-houses  and  pits ;  of 
the  broad,  white  cotton-fields,  that  look  like  acres  of  snow  in  mid- 
summer; and  the  magnolia-trees  crowned  with  their  magnificent 
white  flowers  and  glistening  leaves." 

Eva's  elastic  heart  soon  rebounded  from  its  depression;  and 
she  listened  with  interest  and  pleasure  to  Willie's  animated  de- 
scription of  his  home.     When  he  had  finished,  he  said  : 

"  We  will  be  very  happy  there,  my  Eva;  will  we  not?" 

"Yes,  Willie,  very  happy!"  she  answered,  brightly.  Then  a 
cloud  overspread  her  face,  and  she  added  :  "  But  home  !  Father, 
sister,  Walter,  Mammy  Nancy  1  Oh,  Willie  !  how  can  I  leave 
my  home  ?" 

"  I  will  not  ask  you  to  give  up  your  home,  Eva.  I  only  in- 
tend that  you  shall  have  two  homes  instead  of  one.  I  will  take 
you  to  mine  in  the  winter,  and  you  shall  bring  me  to  yours  in  the 
summer." 

"  That  will  be  charming  1"  she  answered,  gayly.  "Yes,  Willie, 
we  shall  be  very,  very  happy  !" 

And  standing  on  the  threshold  of  life,  with  the  bow  of  promise 
spanning  all  their  future,  those  two  young  hearts,  full  of  love  and 
hope,  saw  nothing  before  them  but  peace  and  happiness;  and, 
sheltered  in  the  haven  of  their  quiet  home,  they  quite  forgot  the 
fierce  swellings  and  surgings  of  the  storm  of  war  without. 


356  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Eva,"  said  Willie,  "  I  want  you  to  give  me  something  to  take 
away  with  me." 

"  YoQ  are  welcome  to    anything  of  mine.     What   will   you 

have  ?" 

"  I  want  your  picture,  and  I  want  this  ringlet,"  taking  up  a 
long,  luxuriant  curl. 

**  I  cannot  give  you  the  first,  Willie;  for  there  is  no  likeness  of 
me  in  existence,  except  a  painful  daguerreotype  that  you  would 

not  have." 

"I  wish  very  much,"  he  answered,  "that  I  had  a  painted  minia- 
ture, and  I  will  have  it  one  of  these  days,  if  there  is  an  artist  in 
the  land  capable  of  doing  justice  to  your  face.  But  a  daguerre- 
otye  is  better  than  nothing.  Can  you  not  have  one  taken 
here  ?" 

"  I  will  try,  but  I  don't  believe  that  I  will  succeed  in  getting  a 
likeness.     I  have  attempted  it  frequently,  and  always  failed." 

"  Well,  try  again,  and  don't  forget  it.  Have  one  taken  for 
me  as  soon  as  I  am  gone,  and  I  will  try  and  devise  some  means 
to  get  it.  I  must  wait  for  that;  but  the  ringlet  I  suppose  I  may 
have  at  once." 

"  Yes,  this  very  minute  if  you  want  it.  Here  are  the  scissors ; 
help  yourself." 

Quite  unconscious  of  the  damage  that  he  was  doing,  and  in- 
tent only  on  securing  the  treasure,  Willie  unhesitatingly  severed 
the  beautiful  curl,  and  was  holding  it  up  admiringly,  when  Julia 
came  in. 

"Oh,  Willie!    oh,  Eva!"  she  exclaimed.      "What  have  you 

done  ?" 

"What?"  answered  both,  in  the  same  breath. 

"  Why,  child,  you  have  cut  off  the  richest,  prettiest  curl  on 
your  bead,  and  just  in  the  most  conspicuous  place,  too  !  You 
have  ruined  yourself." 

"  Oh,  Eva  !"  said  Willie,  in  the  most  penitent  tone,  "how  sorry 
I  am  that  I  took  it !  I  would  not  have  disfigured  you  for  the 
world.  Let  me  see,"  he  added,  turning  her  full  face  round  to 
him.  "  Indeed,  I  do  not  miss  it  at  all.  You  look  just  as  pretty 
without  it." 

"  Perhaps  she  does  with  that  view,"  said  Julia;  "but  turn  her 
head  the  other  way,  and  see  if  you  do  not  miss  it  behind." 

"There  is  a  vacant  space,"  said  Willie,  sorrowfully.  "I  am 
very  sorry.  Indeed,  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  doing  any  mis- 
chief. Can  you  not  divide  some  of  the  others,  Eva,  so  as  to 
make  one  for  this  empty  place  ?" 

"  Never  mind,  Willie,"  she  answered,  "  don't  disturb  yourself 
about  it.     You  are  welcome  to  my  curl,  and  if  it  gives  you  any 


CAMERON    HALL.  857 

pleasure  to  have  it,  I  would  a  great  deal  rather  tnat  it  should  be 
in  your  hand  than  on  my  head,  and  I  am  sure  that  if  I  don't  mind 
losing  it,  nobody  else  need  care.  But  you  must  let  me  put  it  up  for 
you.  If  you  roll  it  up  as  you  are  about  to  do,  when  you  open  it 
you  will  find,  instead  of  a  ringlet,  a  tangled,  unsightly  mass  of 
hair. " 

She  rolled  it  up  smoothly  into  a  flat  curl,  and  secured  it  with 
a  narrow  ribbon,  and  when  she  gave  it  to  him  he  said ; 

"It  shall  be  my  talisman  in  battle,  Eva." 

"Oh,  Willie  !"  she  answered,  "how  gladly  would  I  give  you 
every  curl  upon  my  head  for  that  purpose !" 

Julia  had  thrown  herself  into  a  chair  with  a  weary  sigh ;  and 
Eva,  now  looking  at  her,  said  : 

"You  are  tired,  sister,  and  I  have  been  so  selfish  that  I  did  not 
come  to  help  you.     I  will  do  better  next  time." 

"  I  did  not  want  you,  Eva.  I  should  have  been  the  selfish  one 
to  have  asked  it  under  the  circumstances.  I  have  seen  everything 
begun  now,  and  the  servants  can  do  the  rest.  After  Willie  is 
asleep  to-night,  you  will  help  me  pack  the  box,  will  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  sister,  gladly  enough.  I  will  want  something  to  do  to 
keep  me  from  thinking." 

"Children,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  coming  in,  "we  ought  to  have 
tea  at  once,  and  go  to  town  as  early  as  possible.  With  all  the 
expedition  that  we  can  use,  it  will  be  late  before  Willie  gets 
home  and  in  bed,  and  he  ought  to  have  a  good  night's  rest." 

Julia  hastened  away  in  obedience  to  her  father's  suggestion. 
Tea  was  Soon  over,  and  by  the  time  that  it  was  fairly  dark,  they 
were  on  their  way  to  town. 

It  was  a  moonless,  but  a  clear,  starlight  night,  when  the  little 
party  quietly  left  Mr.  Derby's  house  to  walk  to  the  church.  Few 
words  were  spoken,  for  the  circumstances  were  calculated  to  sub- 
due and  to  solemnize.  The  party  separated,  and  went  different 
ways,  unwilling  that  their  destination  and  purpose  should  be 
known.  It  seemed,  indeed,  like  the  olden  primitive  time,  when 
the  early  Christians,  for  fear  of  persecution,  were  compelled  to 
seek  the  cover  of  darkness  for  the  performance  of  their  most 
solemn  rites.  Mr.  Derby  went  a  little  before  thje  others,  and 
reached  the  gate  first.  He  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  but 
all  was  deserted  and  still.  He  then  applied  the  key,  and  was 
quickly  within  the  yard,  and  then  within  the  church.  The  others 
followed,  and  were  soon  gathered  within  the  sacred  building. 
The  darkness  and  stillness  were  oppressive.  Often,  in  other  days 
of  peace  and  prosperity,  had  they,  together  with  a  large  congre- 
gation, been  assembled  at  that  same  hour  in  that  holy  temple, 
when  the  full  blaze  of  light  revealed  the  most  delicate  carving 


358  CAMERON     HALL. 

and  tracery  up  to  the  very  crown  of  the  pointed  roof;  but  never 
before  had  they  been  there  when  the  pall  of  thick,  black  darkness, 
unrelieved  by  a  single  ray  of  light,  had  shrouded  all  its  beauty  in 
impenetrable  gloom.  Mr.  Cameron,  Willie,  and  Eva  had  not 
yet  arrived,  and  the  others,  groping  their  way  along,  seated  them- 
selves in  the  first  pew,  and  in  silence  awaited  their  coming.  They 
were  only  a  little  way  behind,  and  yet  so  long  and  oppressive  did 
the  minutes  seem,  that  at  last  Mr.  Derby  went  out  to  see  if  they 
were  coming,  half  afraid  lest  something  might  have  happened  to 
detain  them.  To  his  great  relief  he  met  them  at  the  door,  which 
he  locked  after  they  had  entered.  A  few  moments  afterward,  a  feeble 
light  suddenly  shone  in  the  distance.  It  seemed  a  long  way  off,  and 
was  almost  swallowed  up  by  the  surrounding  darkness,  but  still 
it  was  sufficient  to  guide  them  to  the  font,  around  which  the  little 
company  now  silently  grouped  themselves.  A  single  wax  taper 
was  their  only  light,  audits  flame,  so  delicate,  yet  shining  so  clear, 
pure,  and  steady,  in  the  midst  of  the  gloom  around,  was  not  an 
inappropriate  emblem  of  that  feeble  but  unmistakable  light  of  a 
single  Christian  life  which  onr  Lord  bids  his  followers  "let  shine" 
upon  this  sinful  and  darkened  world. 

With  uplifted  face,  full  of  solemn,  earnest  purpose,  the  young 
soldier  knelt  to  receive  the  baptismal  stream.  There  upon  his 
bended  knee  he  was  signed  and  sealed,  pledged  to  another  war- 
fare than  that  in  which  he  was  already  engaged  ;  enrolled  in  an- 
other than  his  country's  service. 

It  was  done;  and  Willie  arose,  henceforth  to  be  "  Christ's 
faithful  soldier  and  servant  unto  his  life's  end." 

When  it  was  all  over,  Uncle  John,  with  one  of  those  impul- 
sive outbursts  that  sometimes  belied  his  title  to  that  old  age  which 
he  so  constantly  claimed,  caught  Willie  in  a  tight  embrace,  and 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  trembling  with  emotion: 

"  God  bless  you,  my  boy  !  God  bless  you  I" 

Mr.  Cameron  grasped  his  hand  in  silence  ;  Eva  clung  to  him 
with  a  suppressed  sob  ;  and  Julia,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  only 
said  : 

"  My  Christian  brother  !" 

That  uight,  when  all  the  others  were  in  bed,  the  two  sisters 
were  busily  engaged  packing  their  box  of  provisions.  Eva 
worked  away  steadily  and  silently,  occasionally  wiping  away  a 
tear,  until  at  last  she  could  restrain  the  flood  no  longer,  and  she 
sat  down  upon  the  floor  in  helpless  grief  Julia  said  nothing  as 
usual,  but  worked  on  quietly.  After  awhile  Eva  said,  between 
her  sobs : 

"Oh,  sister  !  how  will  I,  how  can  I  bear  it?" 

"You  can  and  you  will  bear  it,  my  darling,  after  what  you  have 


CAMERON    HALL.  359 

seen  this  nigbt.  Far  more  than  you  can  conceive  now,  will  the 
recollection  of  this  baptismal  service  sustain  and  comfort  you 
when  Willie  shall  be  again  exposed  to  the  dangers  of  war. 
What  would  I— oh  !  what  would  I  not  give,"  she  added,  forget- 
ting herself,  "  for  such  comfort  with  regard  to " 

She  checked  herself,  and  Eva  looked  up  and  asked : 

"To  whom,  sister?" 

Julia  did  not  answer ;  and  Eva,  absorbed  in  her  own  sorrow 
did  not  care  sufficiently  for  a  reply  to  repeat  the  question.  Pres- 
ently she  said,  in  a  plaintive  voice  : 

"  Oh  !  how  lonely  and  desolate,  how  troubled  and  anxious  will 
my  life  hereafter  be  until  this  dreadful  war  is  over,  and  Willie  and  I 
can  be  reunited,  never  more  to  be  separated  !  I  almost  envy  you, 
sister,  with  only  Walter  to  be  anxious  about.  May  you  never| 
never  know  the  heavy  burden  that  has  been  laid  so  suddenly  upon 
my  heart,  and  has  changed  me  in  a  moment  from  the  light-hearted 
child  to  the  care-burdened  woman." 

Julia  only  replied  by  a  deep  sigh.  When  they  were  separating 
for  the  night,  Eva  kissed  her  sister,  and  said  : 

"How  thankful  I  am  to  have  so  kind  and  good  a  sister  to  sym- 
pathize with  me  in  my  trouble.  Sister,  I  cannot  bear  this  alone; 
you  will  help  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"I  will  do  all  that  I  can  for  you,  my  child,  but  God  alone  can 
really  help  you." 

Julia  sighed  again,  as  she  remembered  that,  unlike  Eva,  she 
had  never  even  had  the  comfort  of  sympathy. 

The  sisters  went  to  bed :  Eva's  young  heart  and  body  already 
so  wearied  with  her  unaccustomed  burden,  that  she  fell  asleep 
immediately  from  exhaustion;  while  the  elder  sister,  long  used  to 
the  struggle,  laid  awake  for  hours,  indulging  the  painful  train  of 
thought  awakened  by  Eva's  unconscious  words. 

"  I  too,"  she  thought,  "have  longed  for  sympathy;  have  longed 
for  some  heart  into  which  I  could  pour  my  trouble.  I  have 
thought  that  Eva  was  too  childlike  to  understand  me,  but  now 
she  can  enter  into  all  my  feelings,  now  at  last  she  can,  as  she 
says  herself,  help  me  to  bear  it." 

The  thought  was  soothing,  and  for  a  little  while  she  rested 
calmly  upon  it;  but  then  all  at  once  came  the  dreary  reflection: 

"No,  I  cannot,  either.  I  will  not  tell  her  that  I  have  thought 
it  my  duty  under  the  circumstances  to  shut  myself  out  from  the 
happiness  which  she  is  now  enjoying  in  Willie's  love.  She  is  ac- 
customed to  confide  in  my  judgment,  and  to  follow  my  advice, 
and  perhaps  might  think  that,  as  in  other  things,  so  also  in  this,' 
she  ought  to  do  what  her  sister  thinks  right.  1  may  be  wrong- 
others  think  so,  though  as  yet  I  cannot  see  it ;  but  I  will  not  do 


3u0  CAMERON    HALL. 

anything  to  thrust  my  morbid  notions,  as  TJncle  John  calls  them, 
upon  her.  She  has  told  Willie  all.  He  is  satisfied  ;  both  are 
happy,  and  I  will  not  be  the  one  to  disturb  their  peace.  No,  I 
cannot  tell  Eva  even  now.     I  must  still  bear  my  burden  alone." 

In  the  darkness  and  stillness  of  night,  when  we  are  shut  out,  as 
it  were,  from  all  human  companionship  and  sympathy,  and  alone 
with  our  sorrow,  it  always  seems  heavier;  and  many  circumstances 
combined  to  make  Julia  feel  to-night,  more  than  ever  before,  that 
her  burden  was  intolerable.     At  last  she  exclaimed  aloud: 

"I  cannot  bear  this  any  longer.  I  have  borne  it  silently,  and 
alone,  until  heart  and  body  are  alike  sick.  Surely  it  can  be  doing 
George  no  wrong  to  speak  of  the  shame  that  he  has  chosen  to 
publish  to  the  world ;  and  I  feel  that  it  is  doing  both  Charles 
and  myself  a  gross  wrong,  thus  to  have  sent  him  away  with  no 
word  of  explanation.  If  ever  I  see  him  again,  and  he  tells  me 
that  his  feelings  are  unchanged,  I  will  tell  him  all.  I  will  tell 
him  that  it  is  not  because  I  cannot,  I  do  not  love  him,  that  I 
sent  him  aw^ay;  yes,  I  will  tell  him  as  he  told  me,  that  I  love  him 
now,  and  will  love  him  until  I  die  I  Perhaps  he  will  be  satisfied 
then;  at  least  I  will.  When  he  knows  the  truth,  and  the  whole 
truth,  I  shall  be  content." 

At  last  she  fell  into  an  uneasy  sleep,  from  which  she  was  not  long 
after  aroused  by  a  vigorous  shake  from  Mammy  Xancy,  who  said: 

"Get  up,  Miss  Julia,  get  up!  It's  daylight;  the  chickens  is 
crowiu'  now.  Master  Willie  ought  to  be  gone  this  minute,  if  he 
don't  want  them  Yankees  to  catch  him;  for  people  tell  me  that 
they  is  mighty  early  risers,  if  thar's  any  mischief  to  be  done." 

Julia  sprang  up  hastily,  saying  : 

"Go,  Mammy,  quickly,  and  awaken  Eva;  and  don't  leave  her 
until  she  gets  up,  for  if  you  do,  she  will  certainly  turn  over  and 
go  to  sleep  again." 

"Not  this  time!"  replied  Mammy,  laughing.  "  I'll  jest  tell 
her  that  Master  Willie  is  waitin'  for  her,  and  says  she  must  come 
quick,  and  I'll  be  bound  she'll  hop  like  a  pea  on  a  hot  shovel!" 

"Are  the  gentlemen  up  ?"  inquired  Julia. 

"Bless  your  soul,  child,  long  ago.  As  to  old  Master  John,  he 
don't  look  like  he's  been  to  bed  at  all.  He  has  been  at  the  stable, 
with  Bob,  for  the  last  hour,  looking  at  the  harness,  and  makin' 
Bob  give  one  good  breakfast  to  that  old  mass  of  ribs  that  he's 
gwine  to  take  along.  I  declar,  Miss  Julia,  it's  a  disgrace  to  send 
sich  a  lookin'  cretur  as  that  from  the  Hall.  The  people  will 
think  that  we's  poor  white  folks,  and  ain't  got  corn  enough  to 
feed  a  mule  I  Howsomever,  they'll  know  better  than  that,  when 
they  see  them  other  horses.  I'm  glad  that  they's  gwine  along, 
for  the  credit  of  the  family  I" 


CAMERON     HALL.  361 

In  her  zeal  for  the  reputation  of  the  Hall,  Mammy  had  quite 
forgotten  Eva,  until  Julia  reminded  her,  and  besrged  that  she 
would  urge  her  to  dress  as  quickly  as  possible.  The  old  womaa 
left  the  room,  saying: 

"  I'll  have  her  dressed  and  down  stars,  now,  as  quick  as  you." 

The  breakfast  was  a  silent  one ;  the  sorrow  of  the  children,  as 
all  the  rest  called  them,  clouding  the  other  hearts.  Uncle  John 
said  : 

''  Girls,  have  I  neither  letter  nor  message  to  take  to  Walter 
and  Charles?  The  boys  will  not  be  glad  to  see  me,  if  I  go 
empty-handed," 

"  They  will  scarcely  call  you  empty-handed,"  said  Mr.  Cam- 
e^on,  "  when  they  see  the  inside  of  Julia's  box.  But  I  am  sorry 
that  there  is  no  letter  for  Walter.     He  will  be  disappointed." 

"You  must  tell  him,  Uncle  John,"  said  Julia,  "how  sudden 
and  unexpected  this  whole  thing  was,  and  that,  as  we  had  not 
time  to  do  both,  I  thought  that  these  substantial  proofs  that  he 
was  remembered  and  cared  for  would  be  more  acceptable  than  a 
whole  sheet  full  of  empty  words." 

"  You  are  right,  Julia.  A  hungry  soldier  may  well  be  ex- 
cused, and  may  love  his  home  and  family  none  the  less,  because 
he  would  rather  eat  a  dozen  home  biscuits  than  to  read  a  dozen 
home  pages  without  the  biscuits.  And  what  message  for  Charles, 
Julia?" 

"  Xone,"  she  answered. 

"jS'ow,  Julia,  that  it  not  like  you;  that  is  not  kind.  I  really 
think  that  his  repeated  allusions  to  his  pleasant  visits  at  the  Hall, 
and  his  hope  to  repeat  them  at  some  future  day,  might  meet  with 
some  recognition  or  response.  Eva,  are  you  too  much  taken  up 
with  Willie  to  have  a  kind  word  for  your  old  friend?  He  does 
not  often  write  without  sending  you  a  message." 

"I  like  Dr.  Charles  just  as  much  as  ever,"  she  answered.  "If 
I  did  not,  I  would  not  give  Rebel  to  him.  You  may  tell  him. 
Uncle  John,  how  gladly  I  would  welcome  him  back  to  the  Hall, 
and  that  I  hope  he  will  give  me  the  pleasure  of  doing  so  before 
long." 

As  they  were  returning  to  the  library,  after  breakfast  was  over, 
Eva  caught  Uncle  John's  arm,  and  whispered : 

"  You  must  tell  Walter  all  about  Willie ;  and  tell  him  that  I 
am  no  longer  the  child  that  he  left  at  home,  but  just  as  happy 
and  just  as  miserable  a  woman  as  he  could  find  in  the  Con- 
federacy." 

"Rather  a  contradiction  in  terms,  I  think,  my  daughter." 

"  Perhaps  in  terms.  Uncle  John,  but  not  in  reality.  You  under- 
stand what  I  mean." 

31 


3?2  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Yes,  Eva,  perfectly." 

The  sun  was  just  above  the  horizon,  when  the  preparations  for 
departure  were  all  complete.  The  barouche  was  at  the  door, 
supplied  with  Uncle  John's  buffalo  robe,  and  pillows  and  blankets 
for  Willie,  who  protested  that  he  was  no  longer  enough  of  an 
invalid  to  need  these  things.  Julia,  however,  insisted  that  they 
should  go  along,  and  Willie,  as  usual,  yielded. 

"  Let  us  bear  it  like  Christians,  my  darling,"  whispered  Willie, 
as  he  strained  Eva  to  his  heart.  "  It  will  not  be  always  so. 
Some  day  we  will  meet  to  be  separated  no  more." 

Mr.  Cameron  now  came  into  the  library,  to  tell  Willie  that 
everything  was  ready.  He  looked  compassionately  upon  them, 
and  laying  a  hand  on  the  head  of  each,  said : 

"  Try  to  bear  your  separation,  my  children,  and  if  I  see  that  it 
is  too  hard,  I  will  not  be  unmerciful.     I  will  not  separate  you." 

"Thank  you,  sirl"  answered  Willie,  gratefully.  "We  will  not 
abuse  your  kindness.  We  will,  if  you  think  best,  try  to  wait  sub- 
missively.    Will  we  not,  Eva  ?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  clung  to  him,  until  her  father  gently 
released  her,  and  seating  her  upon  the  sofa,  said : 

"You  must  go  now,  my  son." 

Willie  clasped  her  once  more  tightly  to  his  heart,  held  her  there 
one  moment,  and  was  gone. 

They  were  all  now  ready  to  go.  Willie  was  in  the  barouche, 
and  Bob  was  mounted  upon  Willie's  horse,  leading  the  mule 
which  Mammy  Nancy  thought  was  so  unfortunate  an  exponent 
of  the  wealth  of  Cameron  Hall.  She  went  up  to  the  carriage, 
and  said,  with  sincere  sympathy  : 

"  Good-by,  Master  Willie  I  God  bless  you !  Keep  up  your 
spirits,  and  don't  be  down-hearted.  I'll  take  good  care  of  the 
child  till  you  come  back." 

"  Thank  you.  Mammy,"  he  answered,  shaking  her  by  the  hand. 
"  If  Eva  is  in  your  keeping,  I  know  that  she  will  be  taken 
care  of" 

Mammy  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  apron,  and  as 
she  turned  round,  with  her  face  and  heart  full  of  sympathy,  her 
eyes  rested  upon  the  unlucky  mule.  In  an  instant  she  forgot 
everything  except  the  fleshless  bones,  which  were  to  her  a  source 
half  of  mortification  and  half  of  mirth.  The  latter  predominated 
now,  and  she  called  out: 

"  I  say,  Bob,  don't  let  nobody  steal  your  fat  mule  !  Good-by, 
Master  John!"  she  said,  extending  her  hand.  "Don't  give 
that  mule  to  none  of  them  Secesh  officers;  and  if  any  of  'em 
wants  to  buy  him,  jest  tell  'em  that  master  is  gwine  to  make  a 
Christmas  present  of  him  to  Master  Jeff  Davis !" 


CAMERON    HALL.  363 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

^  Uncle  John  was  standing  in  Walter's  tent,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  an  expression  of  unmingled  satisfaction  upon  his 
face,  a  quiet  spectator  of  the  eager  scrambling,  the  exclamations 
of  delight,  the  smacking  lips,  and  unequivocal  relish  of  the  con- 
tents of  Julia's  box.  Charles  Beaufort  was  with  him,  a  looker-on 
rather  than  a  participator  in  their  enjoyment,  and  probably  think- 
ing rather  of  the  giver  than  of  the  good  things  themselves. 

"Pitch  in,  boys!"  exclaimed  Walter.  "Pitch  in,  and  help 
yourselves,  and  pay  for  that  memorable  breakfast  that  I  once 
cooked  for  you." 

.  "You  may  well  call  it  memorable,  Cameron,"  answered  Mat. 
"  I,  for  one,  will  never  forget  it.  I  thought  that  I  was  '  gone 
up,'  when  I  tasted  that  mouthful,  and  was  sorry  that  I  had  not 
time  to  make  my  will  and  leave  you  my  last  month's  pay  to  buy 
yeast  and  soda." 

"This  is  rather  better  bread  than  yours,  Cameron,"  said  Nel- 
son, diving  deep  into  the  box,  and  bringing  out  a  splendid-look- 
ing loaf,  whose  light-brown  crust,  just  bursting,  revealed  the 
SQOwy  flakes  of  the  interior.  "By  Jove!  this  is  bread,  sure 
enough  !  Hallo,  Ben,  stop  there !  You  are  putting  away  that 
stuffed  ham  a  little  too  fast;  and  as  to  Tom  there,  if  some  of 
you  boys  don't  relieve  him  of  that  pickle-jar,  the  doctor  will  have 
to  try  his  skill  upon  him  presently." 

"Hallo,  Squire  Butternut!"  shouted  Walter,  as  he  saw  the  old 
man  some  distance  off;  "come  here.  It  is  thanksgiving  day  over 
here,  and  we  want  you  at  the  feast." 

He  was  not  reluctant  to  accept  the  invitation ;  and  as  he  re- 
ceived, at  Walter's  hands,  a  tin  plate  piled  with  the  good  things, 
he  said,  looking  complacently  at  it : 

"  Well,  this  is  what  I  call  real  good  eatin'  1  My  old  woman, 
whose  cookin'  can't  be  beat,  couldn't  do  no  better  than  this.  I 
see,  my  young  friend,  that  there's  somebody  at  your  house  that 
knows  how  to  cook,  though  you  ain't  the  one,  sure  !" 

So  saying,  he  seated  himself  upon  a  camp-stool,  and  proceeded 
to  illustrate  his  approbation  by  attacking  the  food  with  as  much 
determination  of  purpose  as  he  ever  fired  upon  a  Yankee. 

"Jupiter  Tonans!"  exclaimed  Xelson,  with  his  mouth  full  of 
stuffed  ham,  "this  is  food  for  the  gods !  Who  upon  earth  could 
have  seasoned  it,  Cameron  ?  I'll  fight  for  that  woman,  whoever 
she  may  be!" 


364  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  My  sister  Julia,  I  suspect,"  he  replied.  "  She  generally  does 
it ;  and  you  are  not  the  first  man  who  has  smacked  his  lips  over 
the  stuffed  haras  of  Cameron  Hall." 

"  Would  she  look  at  a  fellow,  "Walter  ?"  he  asked.  "  I  must 
try  for  a  furlough,  and  go  over.  Any  chance,  Cameron,  or  has 
somebody  else  been  before  me  ?" 

"  I  leave  you  to  find  that  out  for  yourself,  Nelson,"  he  answered, 
laughing.  "  The  Hall  is  a  hospitable  house,  where  you  will  be 
well  received  and  well  treated ;  and  whenever  you  are  so  dis- 
posed, and  can  get  that  little  piece  of  paper  that  a  soldier  always 
wants  and  seldom  gets,  you  can  make  your  comments  in  person 
to  Miss  Julia,  upon  the  delicacy  of  her  hams." 

"And  I,"  said  Tom,  with  one  hand  full  of  yellow  pickle,  and 
the  other  full  of  walnuts,  and  his  mouth  crammed  with  pickled 
cherries,  "I  will  go  along,  to  give  in  my  testimony  that  Miss 
Cameron's  pickles  quite  equal  her  stuffed  ham,  and  that  no  other 
woman  in  the  Confederacy  could  make  such." 

"Look  here,  Tom,"  said  Nelson,  "are  you  skirmishing  with 
those  pickles  yet?" 

"No  skirmishing!"  said  Mat,  pointing  to  the  three  jars,  one 
in  front  and  one  on  each  side  of  Tom,  from  which  he  was  al- 
ternately helping  himself.  "  It  is  a  regular  charge  upon  the 
center  and  both  wiogs." 

"And  likely  to  be  a  successful  one,"  quoth  Butternut,  wiping 
his  mouth  upon  his  coat  sleeve,  and  putting  his  empty  plate 
down  upon  the  ground. 

"Successful  on  the  part  of  the  pickles,"  said  Nelson.  "I 
think  that  they  will  fairly  lay  him  out  before  he  is  done.  I  say, 
Tom,"  he  added,  with  a  sly  wink  at  Mat,  "  if  you  eat  too  many 
of  those  pickles,  just  apply  to  Cameron  here,  and  he  will  give 
you  half  a  pound  of  soda  to  correct  the  acidity !" 

And  so  they  went  on,  laughing,  and  joking,  and  eating,  as  merry 
and  jovial  as  if  there  had  been  no  war  in  the  land,  and  they  were 
only  on  a  pleasant  excursion,  learning,  by  way  of  variety,  some- 
thing of  camp  life.  At  last,  when  they  were  almost  surfeited, 
Walter  exclaimed : 

"  Look  here,  boys  !  we  are  not  done  yet.  Here  is  something 
else.     Let  us  see  what  is  in  this  bundle." 

He  removed  the  wrapping  and  found  two  boxes  of  choice 
Havanas. 

"  Hurrah  I  hurrah  I"  they  all  shouted  ;  "  this  is  the  best  of  all  I 
Miss  Cameron  forever  1  long  life,  health,  and  happiness  to  Miss 
Cameron  I" 

"  Not  so  fast,  boys,"  said  Walter.  "  I  am  afraid  that  you  are 
not  indebted  to  Miss  Cameron  for  these.  She  does  not  approve 
of  youths,  like  myself,  smoking." 


CAMERON    HALL.  365 

"  Nevertheless,  she  certainly  enconraged  it  in  this  instance, 
Walter,"  said  Uncle  John,  now  coming  forward.  "  She  sent 
those  cigars  herself.  She  says  that  you  soldiers  have  so  few 
luxuries  and  so  many  hardships,  that  she  could  not  resist  the 
temptation." 

"  Here,  fellows!"  said  "Walter,  opening  one  box,  "help  your- 
selves." 

They  needed  no  urging ;  and  while  the  box  was  passing 
round,  Walter  was  about  to  break  open  the  other,  when  he  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Hallo,  doctor  !  Excuse  me.  I  did  not  see  your  name.  This 
is  for  you." 

Charles  took  the  box,  and  saw  his  name  upon  the  lid  in  a  deli- 
cate female  hand.  He  opened  it,  and  retaining  the  cover,  passed 
the  cigars  around. 

The  match  was  quickly  lighted,  and  in  a  moment  the  slender, 
blue  smoke  was  curling  over  each  head,  and  they  were  enjoying  a 
luxury  to  which  they  were  now  altogether  unaccustomed. 

Only  one  cigar  in  the  company  remained  unlighted,  and  old 
Butternut  held  his  tightly  in  one  hand,  while  he  fidgeted  rest- 
lessly, and  dived  into  the  various  pockets  of  pantaloons,  coat,  and 
overcoat.  At  length,  with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction,  he  drew  out  an 
old  cob  pipe  with  a  short  reed  stem. 

"I  say,  squire,"  said  Nelson,  winking  at  the  others,  "did  you 
get  your  Meerschaum  from  Vienna  ?" 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?"  he  asked,  knocking  the  cob  against 
the  leg  of  his  stool,  to  get  rid  of  a  few  remaining  ashes." 

"Your  Meerschaum  !"  repeated  Nelson. 

"  What  sort  of  a  varmint  is  that  ?"  asked  Butternut,  gravely, 
putting  the  stem  into  his  mouth  and  blowing  it  vigorously. 

Nelson  forgot  to  pursue  his  joke,  in  his  wonder  and  horror  at 
seeing  the  old  man  deliberately  break  up  the  cigar  and  fill  his 
pipe  with  the  crumbs. 

"  The  abominable  old  heathen  1"  he  muttered.  "  To  give  you 
a  choice  Havana  is  worse  than  throwing  pearls  to  swine." 

He  glared  savagely  at  him,  and  if  the  order  had  been  given 
that  minute  to  charge  bayonets,  old  Butternut's  patriotic  colored 
suit  would  scarcely  have  saved  him  from  Nelson's  wrath. 

The  feast  was  ended,  and  the  labors  of  hours  had  all  been, 
swept  away  as  in  a  moment,  before  the  ravenous  appetites  of 
hungry  soldiers. 

"  Soon  over  !"  thought  Uncle  John,  as  he  looked  upon  the  rem- 
nants scattered  around ;  "  and  yet  could  Julia  have  seen  what  I 
have,  she  would  feel  compensated  for  her  trouble." 

He  and  Charles  now  walked  away  to  the  tent,  or  rather  the 

31* 


366  CAMERON    HALL. 

log  hut,  which  boasted  the  nnnsnal  luxuries  of  a  chimney  and  a 
plank  floor.  A  cheerful  fire  was  blazing,  and  Uncle  John  said, 
as  they  went  in  : 

"Yery  comfortable  establishment  this,  for  the  army,  Charles. 
But  what  is  all  this  ?"  he  added,  pointing  to  paper,  pen,  and  ink- 
stand upon  an  inverted  tin  bucket.  "  That  looks  like  an  im- 
promptu writing-desk," 

"  That  is  just  what  it  is,  sir.  I  was  writing  honie  when  I  was 
sent  for  to  the  opening  of  the  box." 

"  That  was  a  sight  worth  seeing,  Charles.  I  wish  that  Julia 
could  have  witnessed  it  herself" 

"I  wish  that  she  could,  sir,"  he  answered,  heartily;  and  then 
added,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "  the  sight  of  a  lady  would  be 
more  acceptable  to  some  of  us  here,  than  even  the  dainties  that 
her  hands  have  prepared." 

"Come,  come,  Charles,"  said  Uncle  John,  smiling,  "don't  say 
*the  sight  of  a  lady.'  Be  honest,  and  say  at  once  the  sight  of 
Julia  Cameron.  You  know  that  she  is  the  special  one  of  the 
sex  who  is  in  your  mind  at  this  time." 

"Yery  well,  sir,  have  it  so,  if  you  like.  I  do  not  deny  the 
charge,  but  frankly  confess  that  I  would  like  extremely  to  see  her 
at  this  moment.  And  yet — and  yet,"  he  added,  thoughtfully,  "  I 
don't  know  that  it  would  give  me  any  real  pleasure  after  all." 

"Charles,"  said  Uncle  John,  looking  earnestly  at  him,  "I 
have  suspected  ever  since  you  were  at  my  house  that  there  was 
some  trouble  between  you  and  Julia,  and  what  you  have  now 
said  confirms  these  suspicions.  Can  it  be  possible  that  you  two 
children,  as  well  as  Willie  and  Eva,  have  entangled  yourselves  in 
a  love  aflFair  at  this  unfortunate  time  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  he  replied  with  a  sigh. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  trouble  ?  It  is  yery  plain  that  there  is  some- 
thing weighing  upon  your  mind." 

Charles  hesitated.  The  restraint  that  had  been  imposed  upon 
him  was  more  irksome  to  him  at  this  moment  than  it  had  ever 
been  before.  It  would  have  been  a  great  relief  to  have  given,  with- 
out reserve,  the  confidence  that  Uncle  John  invited,  and  for  an  in- 
stant the  confession  trembled  upon  his  lips.  But  then  he  remem- 
bered his  unconditional  promise  to  a  request  that  specially  ex- 
cluded Uncle  John  from  this  confidence,  and  he  was  for  a 
moment  silent.  Then,  wishing  to  change  the  subject,  he  re- 
plied : 

"You  cannot  expect  me,  with  my  temperament,  to  be  a  very 
gay,  cheerful  man,  so  long  as  I  live  in  the  midst  of  suffering.  It 
depresses,  it  sickens  me.  I  am  sure  that  Nature  never  could 
have  designed  me  for  a  surgeon." 


CAMERON    HALL.  367 

"I  am  by  no  means  sure  of  that,  Charles,"  he  answered.  "It 
seems  to  me  that  you  have  the  necessary  requisites  to  make  you 
eminent  in  your  profession.  You  have  skill,  manipulation,  and 
education,  and  besides  these,  you  have  enjoyed  advantages  in 
Paris  which  are  not  to  be  had  in  this  country." 

"That  may  be,  sir;  but  there  is  one  grave  deficiency  which 
counterbalances  all  these.  I  have  not  the  nerve  for  a  surgeon, 
neither  have  I  that  inordinate  love  of  the  profession  which  can 
make  me  forget  the  misery  that  I  inflict,  in  the  skill  of  the  opera- 
tion. I  cannot  so  keep  my  feelings  in  abeyance  as  to  cut  and  saw 
a  human  being  as  if  he  were  a  block  of  wood,  and  reserve  my 
sympathies  and  compassion  until  my  surgical  assistance  is  no 
longer  needed.  To  be  a  surgeon,  a  man  should  have  a  heart  of 
gutta-percha  and  nerves  of  whalebone." 

"And  a  man  who  hasn't  them,  but  has,  on  the  contrary,  a 
heart  of  sympathy  and  nerves  delicately  strung,  ought  to  have 
some  recreation,  some  respite  from  these  scenes  of  suffering,  and 
that,  Charles,  is  what  you  need  now.  You  have  been  for  months, 
without  intermission,  going  through  this  painful  routine,  and  you 
want  rest  and  change.  Why  don't  you  apply  for  a  furlough,  and 
go  away  for  a  few  days  ?  You  say  that  your  hospital  duties  are 
very  light  now." 

"  I  could  be  very  well  spared  for  a  few  days,  just  now,  but  I 
have  nowhere  to  go.  My  home  is  so  far  off  that  I  would  not 
care  to  go  there  on  a  shorter  furlough  than  three  or  four  weeks, 
and  this  I  would  not  feel  justified  in  asking,  when  I  have  only 
been  in  service  six  months.  If  Hopedale  were  only  within  the 
lines.  Uncle  John,  how  glad  I  would  be  to  go  back  with  you  I  A 
week's  absence  from  my  post  would  suffice  for  quite  a  satisfactory 
visit  there." 

"I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  that  you  could,  Charles,  but  I  am 
afraid  that  a  visit  there  now  would  afford  you  neither  rest  nor 
pleasure.  The  thousand  rumors  of  approaching  raiding  parties 
allow  neither  quiet  nor  security  to  the  man  who  is  obliged  to  get 
out  of  the  way,  as  Willie  can  testify.  Poor  Willie  !  poor  Eva  I 
their  dream  of  bliss  was  short." 

"How  long.  Uncle  John,  before  they  will  be  married?" 
"  Mr.  Cameron  thinks  that  the  idea  of  their  being  married  now 
is  absurd,  but  he  will  be  obliged  to  relent.     It  is  evident  that 
they  are  both  going  to  be  very  miserable  apart,  and  as  the  chil- 
dren have  gotten  into  the  scrape  and  cannot  get  out  of  it,  if  I 
had  the  control  of  them,  they  should  be  married  at  once.     When 
^  two  young  hearts  are  bent  on  anything  of  this  kind,  my  observ^- 
•  tion  is,  that  an  old  one  coming  between  them  cannot  separate 
them  long.     I  shall  tell  Cameron  so,  if  he  ever  speaks  to  me  on 
the  subject." 


368  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  I  little  dreamed  when  I  parted  with  Eva,  a  few  months  ago, 
so  artless  and  childlike  in  her  character,  that  she  would  be  a  wife 
before  the  elder  one,  so  much  more  mature  and  womanly,  so — 
in  short,  so  superior  in  all  respects  to  her  child-sister." 

"Now,  Charles,"  exclaimed  Uncle  John,  laughing,  "it  is  well 
that  Willie  was  not  by  to  hear  that,  for,  weak  as  he  is,  he  would 
have  thrashed  you  on  the  spot, — at  least  he  would  haye  tried  to 
do  it.  It  is  as  fortunate  as  it  is  singular  through  what  different 
glasses  we  look  at  the  same  characters.  Willie  would  be  dumb 
with  amazement  to  have  heard  what  you  just  said,  and  nobody 
could  make  him  believe  that  any  man  in  his  senses  could  really 
think  Julia  the  more  interesting  and  attractive  of  the  two 
sisters." 

"  I  am  glad  that  he  did  not,"  said  Charles,  dreamily. 

"  He  could  not  by  any  possibility  have  interfered  with  your 
success,  if  you  have  any  intentions  in  that  direction.  Willie  is 
nothing  but  a  boy,  and  Julia  always  treated  him  as  such ;  and 
her  maternal  care  of  him  was  quite  a  source  of  amusement  to  me. 
If  their  respective  ages  had  been  forty  and  ten,  there  could  not 
have  been  more  control  on  the  one  side,  and  more  submission  on 
the  other." 

"  I'll  warrant  that  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  good  nurse,  Uncle 
John.  A  woman  with  so  quiet  and  gentle  a  manner,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  much  firmness  and  decision  of  character,  cannot  be 
otherwise  than  a  good  nurse." 

"  Indeed  she  is,  nor  could  she  have  been  more  careful  and  un- 
tiring if  she  had  been  nursing  Walter,  instead  of  a  stranger. 
And  if  you  could  only  have  seen  her,  with  a  face  as  pale  as  death, 
and  compressed  lips,  but  a  tearless  eye  and  a  steady  hand,  help 
me  to  tie  up  some  bleeding  arteries  in  the  absence  of  the"  sur- 
geon, you  would  have  witnessed  a  specimen  of  womanly  fortitude 
worth  seeing." 

**  Indeed,  sir !  I  did  not  suppose  that  she  could  have  done  such 
a  thing." 

"Nor  did  I;  but  it  was  an  unexpected  emergency,  and  a  case 
where  delay  would  have  been  fatal.  I  needed  help,  there  was  no 
other  at  hand,  and  I  called  her  up  to  me  and  whispered  that  she 
might  save  his  life.  That  was  sufficient ;  and  I  believe  that  if  I 
had  needed  her  for  hours,  she  would  have  stayed  with  me  and 
worked  with  me  until  it  was  all  done." 

"  Indeed !  she  has  more  claim  to  the  title  of  surgeon  than  I 
have.     And  was  there  no  reaction  ?" 

"Yes;  one  that  both  alarmed  me  and  showed  what  powerful 
restraint  she  could  impose  upon  her  feelings.  When  she  was  no 
longer  needed,  I  saw  her  totter  out  of  the  room,  and  followed 


CAMERON    HALL.  3S9 

just  in  time  to  catch  her  as  she  fainted.  When  her  conscionsness 
returned,  unselfish  to  the  last,  her  first  impulse  was  to  beg  me  not 
to  tell  Willie,  for  fear  that  if  she  were  needed  again,  ft  miG:ht 
make  him  unwilling  for  her  to  help  him.  And  so  we  never  told 
Willie.     All  that  he  knows  is  what  he  himself  saw  her  do." 

"One  would  think  that  was  enough;  and  do  you  suppose  that, 
after  this,  the  foolish  boy  can  think  the  younger  sister  the  nobler 
character  ?" 

"Undoubtedly  he  does.  He  does  not  depreciate  Julia,  he  only 
exalts  Eva.  It  is  not  that  he  admires  Julia  less,  but  that  he  loves 
Eva  more." 

"  I  suppose.  Uncle  John,  that  it  is,  as  you  say,  fortunate  for 
us  that  in  these  matters  we  have  difi'erent  tastes  and  preferences. 
For  myself,  I  can  only  say  that  such  a  quiet  exhibition  of  disre- 
gard and  forgetfalness  of  self,  such  an  instance  of  firmness  and 
self-control  on  the  part  of  a  timid  and  delicately-organized  woman, 
seems  to  me  to  partake,  if  not  of  moral  sublimity,  at  least  of  some- 
thing very  nearly  akin  to  it." 

"  So  I  thought,  Charles,  when  she  was  lying  dead  before  me, 
her  face  as  white  as  the  pillow  on  which  it  rested.  She  is  a  noble 
girl;  although  she  has  some  few  traits  of  character  that  I  would 
like  to  alter." 

"I  cannot  imagine,  sir,  what  they  can  be.     It  is  true  that  you 
have  known  her  much  longer  than  I  have;  but  there  is  so  much 
openness  and  candor  and  truthfulness  in  her  character,  that  if  you 
are  acquainted  with  her  at  all,  you  must  needs  know  her  well. 
The  only  barrier  to  a  speedy  acquaintance  with  Miss  Cameron 
is  her  reserve,  and  when  once  that  is  overcome,  her  whole  char- 
acter is  as  clear  as  the  transparent  brook,  whose  every  pebble  can 
be  plainly  seen  at  the  bottom.     I  know  her  well.     You  need  not 
smile.  Uncle  John,  for  I  feel  that  I  know  her,  even  though  my 
intercourse  with  her,  unlike  yours,  may  be  reckoned  by  days  in- 
stead of  years.  I  understand  her  thoroughly,  and  there  is  nothing 
in  her  character  that  I  would  take  the  responsibility  of  alterino-." 
"And  yet,  Charles,  she  has  peculiarities  (for  such  they  are 
rather  than  faults)  that  I  would  like  exceedingly  to  alter ;  pecu- 
liarities which  affect  her  happiness  rather  than  mar  her  character. 
She  has  some  morbid  notions  which,  for  her  own  sake,  I  would 
like  to  eradicate,  and  yet  while  I  deprecate  them  I  cannot  but 
respect  them,  because  their  very  morbidness  shows  the  high  tone 
to  which  her  nature  is  strung.     And  then,  too,  this  very  reserve 
of  which  you  have  just  spoken  I  would  like  to  change,  because  it 
prevents  her  from  being  properly  understood  and  appreciated. 
Julia  will  go  through  life  with  less  affection  and  admiration  than 
she  deserves,  because  she  is  shut  up  in  a  reserve  which  some 


370  CAMERON    HALL. 

people  cannot,  and  others  will  not,  take  the  trouble  to  pene- 
trate." 

"But,  Uncle  John,  is  not  that  reserve  the  result  of  diffidence 
and  timidity,  faults,  if  such  they  can  be  called,  not  too  frequently 
met  with,  and  certainly  very  pardonable  in  one  of  her  sex?" 

"It  may  be  partly  the  result  of  these,  but  not  altogether. 
Julia's  heart  is  warm  and  her  affections  strong;  but  she  is  quite 
satislied  to  expend  them  all  on  a  few  objects.  I  do  not  believe 
that  she  really  cares  to  have  a  large  circle  of  friends.  The  few 
that  she  loves,  she  clings  to,  and  they  are  in  turn  devoted  to  her, 
and  she  asks  and  wants  no  more.  In  this,  she  does  not  do  her- 
self justice.  She  deserves  to  be  universally  beloved,  and  she 
cannot  be,  because  she  does  not  allow  herself  to  be  known." 

"  Such  a  character  may  not  shine  so  much  in  the  world,  Uncle 
John ;  but  it  will  certainly  make  the  brightness  and  happiness  of 
home,  and  that,  after  all,  is  woman's  true  sphere." 

"  So  it  is,  Charles,  and  I  would  be  the  last  one  to  wish  her  to 
sacrifice  this  to  the  other;  but  I  think  thafa  little  less  of  one 
and  more  of  the  other  would  better  equalize  and  harmonize  her 
character — ^hat  is  all.  Don't  be  uneasy,  my  boy.  I  have  no 
desire  to  upheave  her  character  and  recoustruct  it,  for  nobody 
has  better  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  it,  just  as  it  is,  than  Uncle 
John." 

"  I  should  think  not,  for  you  are  one  of  the  few  whose  love 
seems  so  completely  to  satisfy  her." 

Charles  sighed  with  a  vain  longing  to  be  admitted  within  that 
narrow  circle,  and  to  feel  himself  as  necessary  to  her  happiness 
as  he  knew  that  she  was  to  his.     Presently  he  said,  abruptly: 

"Did  you  not  tell  me,  Uncle  John,  that  Rebel  was  a  present 
from  Eva  ?" 

"Yes,  that  was  her  message." 

"I  thought  that  he  belonged  to  the  elder  sister." 

"And  so  he  did;  but  Julia  wanted  to  send  him  to  the  army, 
and  gave  Eva  the  privilege  of  disposing  of  him  as  she  pleased. 
He  is  a  splendid  animal,  Charles,  and  you  must  take  good  care 
of  him,  both  to  gratify  the  girls  and  on  account  of  his  intrinsic 
value.  Julia  was  warmly  attached  to  him.  1  surprised  her,  the 
morning  that  I  left,  in  a  little  quiet  demonstration  tha^  she  did 
not  intend  anybody  to  see.  I  found  her  in  the  stable  with  her 
arms  around  the  horse's  neck ;  and  when  she  became  aware  that 
there  was  an  unexpected  witness  of  the  scene,  she  could  not,  in 
her  haste,  wipe  away  all  traces  of  tears  before  she  looked  up.  *I 
want  him  to  go,'  she  said,  sadly,  as  she  patted  his  neck,  'but  I 
am  very  sorry  to  part  with  him.  I  could  scarcely  love  him  more 
if  he  were  a  human  friend.' " 


CAMERON    HALL.  371 

"I  will  take  care  of  him,  sir,"  said  Charles,  earnestly. 

Just  then  Walter  came  rushing  by,  exclaiming: 

"Uncle  John  !  Doctor!  They  have  just  brought  in  a  spy  to 
headquarters  1" 

And  on  he  went,  without  a  moment's  pause,  eager  to  see  and 
to  hear  all  about  it. 

"He  will  be  disappointed,"  said  Charles,  "that  he  was  not  the 
fortunate  man  to  bring  him  in.  He  once  told  me  that  he  would 
like  nothing  better  than  to  be  the  brave  captor  of  a  spy." 

Then  the  conversation  returned  to  its  old  channel;  both  find- 
ing in  the  quiet  life  at  Cameron  Hall  pleasanter  themes  than 
could  be  afforded  in  the  bustling  and  stirring  scenes  of  war  and 
the  camp.  Charles  did  not  think  that  his  promise  extended  to  a 
concealment  of  his  admiration  for  Julia's  character;  and  of  this 
he  continued  to  speak  freely  and  without  reserve,  endeavoring  at 
the  same  time  to  talk  of  her  as  he  would  have  done  of  a  common 
acquaintance ;  and  although  Uncle  John  could  not  be  deceived, 
and  felt  assured  that  there  was  underlying  all  this  something  of 
a  deeper  and  tenderer  nature  than  was  acknowledged,  yet  since 
Charles  was  not  disposed  to  open  his  heart  to  him,  he  delicately 
forbore,  by  word  or  look,  to  betray  his  suspicions. 

They  had  been  talking  some  time,  when  a  head  was  thrust  in 
at  the  door,  and  iS'elson  said,  addressing  himself  to  Uncle  John: 

"You  seem  to  be  a  friend  of  Cameron's,  sir.  Will  you  please 
come  to  him,  for  we  boys  cannot  do  anything  with  him." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  exclaimed  Uncle  John  and  Charles  in 
the  same  breath. 

"Have  you  not  heard,  sir?  The  spy  that  was  brought  in, 
awhile  ago,  turns  out  to  be  his  brother  George  ;  and  between  mor- 
tification and  rage,  the  boy  is  well-nigh  deranged." 

Not  a  word  was  spoken,  and  for  a  minute  neither  moved. 
Dumb  and  motionless,  Uncle  John  thought  of  Cameron  Hall, 
and  Charles  of  the  sister,  whose  heart  he  well  knew  such  a  sor- 
row would  pierce  with  a  doubly  poisoned  fang. 

Without  a  word  either  to  each  other  or  to  the  messenger,  they 
both  arose,  and  followed  Nelson  to  Walter's  tent,  where  they  found 
the  youth  in  a  pitiable  condition  indeed.  Mingled  sorrow,  anger, 
and  mortification  swelled  into  a  bitter  tide,  to  which  the  boy  gave 
way  with  all  the  passion  of  a  strong  nature.  In  his  fury,  he 
heaped  up  maledictions  upon  his  traitor-brother ;  and,  for  the  time 
being,  that  brother's  inevitable  and  mournful  doom  was  forgotten 
in  the  agony  of  shame  which  his  treachery  had  entailed  upon  his 
family.  There  was  no  such  thing  as  either  soothing  or  comfort- 
ing him,  and  Uncle  John  found  that  he  could  do  nothing  but 
wait  in  silence  until  the  passion  had  exhausted  itsel£ 


372  CAMERON    HALL. 

"It  would  seem  enough,"  he  exclaimed,  bitterly,  "to  have  been 
a  traitor,  to  have  fought  against  his  country,  home,  father,  brother 
. — but  to  be  a  traitor-spy  1  to  be  held  up  to  the  execration  of  the 
world ;  to  be  hung  and  thrown  into  a  dishonored  grave  !  Oh, 
God  1  he  deserves  it  all,  and  I  would  not  alter  the  sentence  ;  but 
it  is  more  than  I  can  bear  that  he  should  be  my  brother,  that  he 
should  be  called  by  my  name  !" 

Poor  Walter  I  he  made  his  first  acquaintance  with  sorrow 
through  a  bitter  trial;  and  it  came  in  a  form  which  his  impetuous 
temper  was  ill  calculated  to  bear.  Unacquainted  with  his  larother, 
forgetful  even  of  the  wrongs  and  petty  tyranny  which  had  been 
the  torment  of  his  infancy,  to  Walter  as  well  as  to  Eva  there 
had  been  something  shadowy,  undefined,  unreal,  in  the  feelings 
which  that  brief  newspaper  paragraph  had  awakened.  He  could 
not  enter  into  the  keenness  of  the  mortification  and  sorrow  of  his 
father  and  elder  sister  ;  but  suddenly,  and  in  a  moment,  it  had  all 
come  home  to  him  now,  and  the  unreality  before  only  increased 
the  severity  of  the  blow,  and  its  unexpectedness  made  it  but  the 
heavier.     After  awhile  he  said,  suddenly: 

"  Go  and  see  him.  Uncle  John ;  I  will  not,  I  cannot.  It  may 
be  that  he  will  have  some  message  for  my  father,  some  word  of 
regret  for  the  disgrace  that  he  has  left  upon  a  stainless  name, 
some  word  of  repentance,  some  prayer  for  forgiveness  for  the  sor- 
row that  he  has  brought  upon  a  happy  family.  My  poor  father  I 
It  is  a  pity  that,  like  my  mother,  he  too  could  not  have  rested  in 
a  quiet  grave,  before  his  old  age  had  been  blighted  by  such  a 
curse  1" 

"I  will  go  and  see  him,  my  son ;  but  suppose  that  your  brother 
should  want  to  see  you ;  suppose  that  he  should  prefer  to  talk  to 
you  rather  than  to  send  a  message  by  one  who  is  a  stranger  to 
him  ?" 

"  Whatever  he  may  have  to  say,  bid  him  say  it  to  you,  sir ;  for 
I  will  never  see  him.  I  have  now  no  recollection  of  him,  and  I 
will  not  have  my  only  memory  of  my  elder  brother  that  of  a  trai- 
tor and  a  spy.  Would  to  God  I  could  forget  that  he  had  ever 
lived  !" 

Uncle  John  made  no  reply,  but  went  out  to  fulfill  Walter's  re- 
quest. His  application  at  headquarters  was  not  refused,  when 
he  made  himself  known  as  the  friend  of  the  prisoner's  father,  and 
he  was  permitted  to  see  him.  He  found  him  sitting  in  a  tent, 
manacled  and  chained,  and  under  heavy  guard,  waiting  to  be  sent 
by  the  earliest  train  to  Richmond,  there  to  await  his  trial  by 
court-martial.  His  hat  was  pulled  over  his  face,  and  his  head 
was  bent  down  upon  his  breast,  so  that  not  a  feature  was  visible  ; 
and  yet  there  was  something  in  his  appearance  and  attitude  which 


CAMERON    HALL.  373 

assured  Uncle  John,  as  he  approached  him,  that  this  was  not  the 
first  time  he  had  seen  that  man. 

He  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  the  presence  of  any  one,  or  if 
he  was,  no  perceptible  movement  betrayed  it.  Uncle  John  went 
up  close  to  him,  and  said,  in  a  voice  of  mingled  sorrow  and  pity : 

"  George  Cameron !" 

He  looked  up  suddenly,  and  revealed  the  features  of  Agnes's 
gloomy  stranger-friend  on  the  steamer. 

The  recognition  was  mutual,  but  neither  acknowledged  it  in 
words ;  and  after  the  surprise  was  over,  the  prisoner  said  coldly, 
and  with  a  half-suppressed  sneer  : 

"  To  whom  am  I  indebted  for  the  honor  of  this  visit  ?  In  my 
circumstances  I  certainly  have  no  right  to  expect  a  visit  from 
anybody  in  the  rebel  army,  unless,  indeed,  it  might  be  prompted 
by  curiosity." 

"  No  idle  curiosity  has  brought  me  here,  George,"  said  Uncle 
John  kindly.  "  I  am  the  most  intimate  friend  of  your  father 
and  sisters,  and  I  have  come  this  moment  from  your  brother's 
tent." 

He  waited  for  a  reply,  but  none  came  for  several  minutes,  and 
then  the  question  was  coldly  asked  : 

"  If  not  curiosity,  then  may  I  ask  again  what  brought  you 
here  ?" 

Uncle  John  could  not  quite  conceal  a  little  irritation  in  his 
tone  as  he  replied  : 

''Nothing  but  a  feeling  of  interest  and  sympathy  which  I  must 
ever  have  for  one  of  the  Cameron  family,  even  in  such  circum- 
stances as  yours." 

"  For  which  I  should  doubtless  be  profoundly  grateful ;  but, 
inasmuch  as  I  have  gone  thus  far  through  life  vdthout  much  of 
either  sympathy  or  interest,  I  may  not  be  so  much  to  blame  if  I 
should  fail  to  appreciate  them  properly.  As  to  my  circum- 
stances," he  added,  with  a  short,  bitter  laugh,  "they  are  rather 
unpleasant,  but  not  altogether  unexpected.  They  are  but  the 
fate  of  war,  and  such  I  knew  were  the  chances  when  I  accepted 
the  mission." 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  There  was  a  hardness,  a  bitterness 
in  the  tone  and  words  of  the  man,  that  repelled  all  sympathy  and 
crushed  all  kindly  feeling.  Uncle  John  was  strongly  tempted  to 
leave  him  in  disgust,  but  he  remembered  that  he  was  a  Cameron, 
and  he  determined  to  bear  anything,  in  the  faint  hope  of  eliciting 
one  word  that  might  alleviate  the  sorrow  of  those  at  home. 

The  prisoner's  head  drooped  upon  his  breast,  and  there  was 
every  indication  that  his  visitor's  departure  would  be  the  most 

32 


374  CAMERON    HALL. 

acceptable  part  of  the  interview,  but  Uncle  John  resolutely  de- 
termined not  to  see  it.     After  a  little  while  he  said,  kindly : 

"  George,  have  you  no  message  for  those  at  home, — for  father, 
sisters  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered  sullenly  "Father  and  sisters  have  not 
been  such  to  me." 

"And  whose  fault  was  that,  George  ?" 

"And  by  whose  authority,"  he  answered  fiercely,  his  eyes  gleam- 
ing, and  his  hands  working  uneasily,  as  if  he  longed  to  burst  his 
fetters,  "by  whose  authority  do  you  thus  catechize  me  and  pry 
into  the  secrets  of  my  early  life?" 

"On  my  own  authority,  George  Cameron,"  answered  Uncle 
John  firmly,  his  own  eye  flashing.  "  Not  from  the  impertinent 
curiosity  to  which  you  persist  in  ascribing  it,  but  from  what  now 
seems  a  vain  hope  of  extracting  from  you  one  word  of  kindly  re- 
membrance, one  word  of  filial  regret,  one  prayer  for  the  pardon 
of  those  whom  you  have  so  deeply  wronged.  Listen  to  me, 
George  Cameron.  You  must,  you  shall  hear  me.  Within  a 
few  months  I  have  seen  your  father's  erect,  vigorous  frame  bowed 
beneath  the  weight,  not  of  years,  nor  altogether  of  sorrow,  but 
of  mingled  sorrow  and  shame.  I  have  seen  his  hair  rapidly 
growing  gray,  and  his  cheeks  furrowed  with  the  deep  lines,  not 
of  age,  but  of  care.  I  have  seen  your  sister  writhe  in  agony  at 
the  thought  of  a  blighted  name.  You  have  done  it  all,  and  I 
did  hope,  though  it  seems  in  vain,  that  from  the  sad  end  of  a  sad 
career  you  might  perhaps  find  it  in  your  heart  to  speak  one  word, 
to  send  one  message  that  might  soften  the  bitterness  of  their 
mortification  and  sorrow." 

"  Now  I  swear,"  he  exclaimed,  "this  is  beyond  endurance  !  If 
these  hands  were  only  free  you  would  not  dare  to  talk  to  me  in 
this  way.  I  am  no  boy,  no  child,  to  be  thus  called  to  account 
for  my  actions,  and  if  I  were,  you  are  not  the  man  to  do  it. 
Guard  !  put  this  old  man  out  of  this  tent." 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Uncle  John  quietly  but  firmly.  "  My  visit  is 
not  ended  yet,  and  as  it  is  the  last  one  that  I  shall  ever  inflict 
upon  you,  I  beg  that  you  will  bear  with  me  only  a  few  minutes 
longer.  Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  you  have  no  message 
for  your  father  ?" 

"No,  none,  unless  you  choose  to  tell  him  that  I' glory  in  dying 
in  the  United  States  service,  and  only  regret  that  I  must  go 
without  seeing  this  accursed  rebellion  crushed.  Will  he  be  glad 
to  receive  that  message?     Will  you  be  willing  to  bear  it?" 

Uncle  John  did  not  answer  the  question,  but  said  in  reply: 

"  One  more  question,  George  Cameron.    Where  is  your  wife?" 

"By  heaven  I"  he  exclaimed,  grinding  his  teeth,  "if  this  im- 


CAMERON    HALL.  875 

pertinent  old  man  is  allowed  thus  to  torment  me  while  I  am 
bound  hand  and  foot,  I  will  burst  with  rage,  and  the  Confederate 
halter  will  be  cheated  out  of  one  victim  I  Who  told  you  that  I 
had  a  wife,  and  what  business  is  it  of  yours  where  she  is  ?  Would 
you  take  care  of  her?  You,  the»high-souled,  spotless  Confede- 
rate, would  you  extend  a  helping  hand  or  give  a  word  of  sym- 
pathy to  the  wife  of  a  traitor-spy  ?" 

"Sneer  on,  George  Cameron,"  he  answered  calmly;  ''sneer 
on.  Yes,  I  would  take  care  of  her,  I  would  make  any  sacrifice 
for  her  and  her  child.  If  you  will  only  calm  yourself  and  listen 
to  me  a  few  minutes,  perhaps  I  can  show  you  what  business  it  is 
of  mine  whether  you  have  a  wife  and  where  she  is." 
•  Without  waiting  for  the  permission  which  he  knew  that  he 
would  not  receive,  he  told  him  in  a  few  words  the  story  of  his 
life.  His  eye  moistened  with  tenderness,  as  it  always  did,  when 
he  spoke  of  the  child  to  whom  he  believed  that  he  owed  all  that 
was  kind  and  gentle  in  his  nature.  When  he  had  finished  the 
brief  history,  he  said  : 

"  On  his  dying  bed  in  my  own  house  her  old  father  asked  and 
received  forgiveness  for  the  wrong  that  had  poisoned  my  whole 
life,  and  in  token  of  the  sincerity  of  that  forgiveness,  he  exacted 
of  me  a  promise  that  if  I  should  ever  find  that  child  for  whom 
he  had  vainly  searched,  I  should  befriend  her  and  be  kind  to  her. 
From  what  I  have  told  you,  you  will  not  suppose  that  the  promise 
was  hard  to  make  or  would  be  difficult  to  keep.  That  child, 
George  Cameron,  is  your  wife;  does  it  still  surprise  yoa  that  I 
should  ask  what  has  become  of  her  ?" 

Very  different  now  were  the  aspect  and  manner  of  both  listener 
and  narrator  from  what  they  were  when  the  story  began.  Gradu- 
ally George  Cameron's  fierce,  defiant,  insulting  manner  had  given 
place  to  an  expression  of  deepest  interest,  while  Uncle  John's 
irritation  and  excitement  had  softened  down  into  that  tone  of 
affection,  nay  almost  of  reverence,  with  which  he  always  spoke 
of  that  child.  To  his  question  the  prisoner  replied,  almost 
humbly  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  did  you  wrong ;  it  was  not  im- 
pertinent curiosity." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  added,  sadly: 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  tell  you,  or  rather,  I  wish  that  somebody 
could  tell  me  where  my  wife  and  child  are." 

"Why,  why  did  you  ever  leave  them,  George  ?" 

"On  my  honor,  sir "  he  stopped  a  moment,  and  added, 

with  a  little  of  the  old  bitterness,  "if  you  can  believe  me  pos- 
sessed of  such  a  thing — on  my  honor  it  was  not  my  intention  to 
desert  my  wife.     I  had  always  been  of  a  restless,  roving  disposi- 


376  CAMERON    HALL. 

tion,  and  even  from  my  earliest  childhood  the  restraints  of  home 
were  irksome  to  me,  and  at  last  became  intolerable.  I  never 
could  bear  to  be  tied  down  to  any  place  or  any  routine,  and  even 
domestic  ties  failed  to  overcome  the  restlessness  of  my  temper. 
It  was  not  that  I  was  wearied  with  my  wife,  but  rather  with  the 
monotony  of  the  life  of  that  quiet  country  village.  I  longed  for 
something  exciting,  something  varied ;  and  the  descriptions  of 
life  in  the  mining  districts  of  California  seemed  to  offer  just  what 
I  wanted.  I  did  not  think,  however,  that  it  was  the  place  to 
take  my  young  wife  and  her  infant  child,  because  I  had  not  the 
means  to  make  them  as  comfortable  in  that  extravagant  country 
as  they  were  at  home.  And  so  I  left  them,  honestly  purposing 
to  return,  when  I  had  made  sufficient  money,  and  take  them  there 
too." 

"  But  you  did  not.  You  neither  came  back  to  them,  nor  wrote 
for  them  to  come  to  you." 

"  No,  sir,  there  was  my  fault, — a  fault  still  to  be  attributed 
rather  to  m}  roving  disposition  than  to  any  willful  intention  to 
wrong  my  wife.  My  expectations  in  California  were  fully  realized ; 
not  the  golden  dreams  which  allure  so  many,  for  these  were  but 
secondary  attractions  to  me.  I  found  what  my  nature  craved : 
an  ever-shifting  scene,  a  constant  excitement,  a  life  of  adventure, 
and  I  was  fully  satisfied.  At  first  I  persuaded  myself  that  until 
I  was  wearied  with  this  life  and  was  ready  to  settle  down  perma- 
nently, it  would  not  be  right  to  bring  my  wife  to  a  wild  country 
where  woman  needs  a  protector  always  with  he'r;  but,  while  I 
was  waiting  for  the  time  to  come  when  I  could  bring  her  to  me, 
I  was,  at  the  same  time,  gradually  and  insensibly  becoming  ac- 
customed to  being  without  her,  until,  at  last,  I  found  that  my 
happiness  was  quite  as  independent  of  her  as  it  was  before  I  ever 
knew  her." 

"  But  did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  perhaps  hers  might  not 
be  altogether  so  independent  of  you  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  it  did  at  first;  but  after  awhile  all  such  thoughts 
quieted  down,  and  I  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  she  could 
learn  to  do  without  me  as  well  as  I  had  learned  to  do  without 
her." 

"And  did  not  her  letters  awaken  a  pang  of  remorse?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  as  long  as  they  came ;  but  after  awhile  they  too 
ceased,  and  there  was  nothing  to  remind  me  of  wife  and  child 
except  a  lingering  memory,  painful  because  it  was  linked  with 
the  consciousness  of  wrong,  and  therefore  I  strove  to  forget.  So 
it  went  on  for  years,  but  at  last  the  punishment  came,  as  it  always 
must.  It  required  a  long  time  to  satiate  me  with  California  life, 
but  at  length  I  grew  tired  of  it.    Its  very  excitement  and  variety 


CAMEKON     HALL.  377 

became  monotonous,  and  when  I  had  grown  familiar  with  all  its 
phases  I  wanted  something  new.  Quiet  and  repose  were  now 
the  novelties  for  which  I  longed,  especially  when  my  health  be- 
gan to  fail,  and  I  needed  the  comforts  of  home  and  the  gentle 
offices  of  a  wife.  So  I  came  back  to  find  them,  never  dreaming 
of  the  disappointment  that  awaited  me.  So  accustomed  had  I 
been  all  my  life  to  carry  out  my  own  purposes,  and  to  bend  cir- 
cumstances to  my  will,  that  it  never  occurred  to  me  now  that  the 
home  and  wife  that  I  wanted  would  not  take  me  back  with  open 
arms  and  a  glad  welcome.  I  never  even  thought  of  the  possi- 
bility that  death  might  have  interfered  with  my  plans ;  but  I 
went  back  to  my  deserted  home  as  confident  of  finding  it  as  if  I 
had  left  it  but  the  dav  before.  Had  I  found  wife,  and  child  dead 
I  should  have  been  surprised,  but  I  could  have  borne  it;  but  to 
be  told  that  they  had  been  gone  for  years,  none  knew  whither, 
only  added  a  new  impulse  to  my  determination  to  find  them,  at 
the  same  time  that  it  irritated  me  to  find  myself  so  completely 
baffled.  Had  I  been  in  my  wife's  place  I  should  probably  have 
acted  just  as  she  did,  and  should  have  placed  myself  beyond  the 
reach  of  a  faithless  husband ;  but  we  are  prone  to  expect  only 
endurance  and  forgiveness  from  the  gentler  sex,  and  I  was  stung 
to  the  quick  when  I  found  that  I,  in  common  with  too  many 
others,  had  presumed  too  far  upon  these  traits  of  character. 
And  now  I  wanted  my  child,  and  I  determined  to  bend  all  my 
energies  to  find  her;  but  her  mother  has  shown  marvelous  saga- 
city in  selecting  her  retreat,  for  years  ago  I  gave  up  the  fruitless 
search.  Perhaps  I  may  be  fioding  fault  with  the  dead,  for  I  re- 
member sometimes  with  a  pang  what  a  gentle,  loving  nature  hers 
was,  and  how  little  calculated  to  bear  the  chilling  effects  of  de- 
sertion; but  then  she  had  no  right  to  die  without  leaving  some 
clew  by  which  my  child  might  find  her  father.  Such,  sir,  is  a 
brief  history  of  my  hfe.  In  it  there  is  much  to  condemn,  and 
much,  too  (if  you  knew  all),  to  excite  your  commiseration  and 
sympathy.  I  have  sometimes  thought,"  he  added  in  a  sad,  re- 
gretful tone,  "that  perhaps  all  my  trouble  may  be  traced  back  to 
my  first  wrong  step.  I  remember  learning  at  my  mother's  knee 
the  curse  pronounced  upon  the  disobedient  child." 

He  relapsed  into  a  thoughtful  silence,  and  Uncle  John  hoped 
that  memory  had  wandered  back  to  his  childhood's  home,  and 
the  mother  of  whom  he  had  spoken,  and  that  he  would  soften 
and  melt  under  the  influence  of  such  thoughts.  He  waited  some 
minutes  for  him  to  speak,  but  he  did  not,  and  then  Uncle  John 
asked : 

"  How  comes  it,  George,  that  I  find  you  now  in  such  painful 
circumstances  ?" 

32* 


378  '  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  I  had  no  home,  sir,  and  I  had  lived  upon  excitement  so  long 
that  I  could  not  do  without  it.  For  awhile  I  found  something 
new,  both  in  kind  and  degree,  in  the  excitement  of  the  camp  and 
the  battle-field ;  but  that,  like  all  the  rest,  palled  upon  my  taste,  and 
I  sought  a  higher  flavor,  a  keener  spice,  in  the  risk  and  danger  of 
my  present  disastrous  mission." 

"  Perhaps,  George,  you  will  allow  your  father's  friend  the 
privilege  of  asking  you  one  question.  Why,  in  seeking  the  ex- 
citement of  the  camp  and  the  battle-field,  did  you  not  seek  it  on 
the  right  side?  Why,  oh  why  did  you  take  up  arms  against 
country,  home,  father?" 

The  softness  and  gentleness  were  all  gone  in  an  instant.  The 
deep  frown  canae  back,  and  in  a  peremptory  tone,  that  plainly 
prohibited  all  discussion  of  that  point,  he  only  answered : 

"We  will  not  discuss  that  question.     I  did  as  I  thought  best." 

"George,"  said  Uncle  John,  "I  have  persisted  in  this  inter- 
view, when,  had  you  been  another  than  a  Cameron,  you  would 
long  since  have  driven  me  away;  but,  as  your  father's  son,  I 
must  in  any  and  all  circumstances  be  interested  in  you.  God 
only  knows  how  from  my  soul  I  regret  to  find  you  in  this  condi- 
tion.    Tell  me,  is  there  nothing  that  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

The  expression  of  his  face  softened  for  a  moment;  but  then, 
as  if  determined  to  crush  out  all  such  feelings,  he  replied,  in  a 
flippant,  reckless  tone,  clanging  his  haud-cuflfs  together  as  he 
spoke : 

"Nothing,  unless  you  strike  these  ofl",  and  turn  me  loose  again, 
to  give  plenty  of  valuable  information  to  the  Federals, — and  I 
rather  suspect  that  you  are  too  good  a  rebel  for  this.  No,  no  !  it 
is  the  fate  of  war ;  and  all  that  is  left  me  to  do  now  is  to  submit 
cheerfully,  and  swing  gracefully." 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  see  a  minister,  George  ?  You  re- 
member Mr.  Derby.  He  is  still  in  Hopedale,  and  would  esteem 
it  a  privilege  to  do  anything  to  comfort  or  benefit  one  of  your 
father's  children.  You  are  to  be  sent  to  Richmond  ;  he  will  go 
there  to  see  you,  if  you  would  like  it." 

"  Oh  no,  sir  1  Such  a  journey,  for  such  a  purpose,  would  be 
quite  unnecessary.  I  know  all  that  he  would  tell  me,  and  if  I 
cannot  get  ready  to  die  myself,  he  cannot  do  it  for  me." 

"  Have  you  any  hope  of  being  acquitted?" 

"  None  in  the  world,  sir.  The  evidence  is  as  clear  as  day. 
Papers,  maps,  and  drawings  were  found  upon  my  person  that 
would  have  enabled  the  Federal  army  to  give  you  a  surprise, 
which  would  have  more  than  redeemed  the  Bull  Run  disaster  of 
last  July.  Oh  no  !  there  is  no  hope  for  me.  Half  the  evidence 
would  be  enough  to  convict  me." 


CAMERON     HALL.  379 

"Have  you  a  Bible,  George?" 

"Why,  sir,"  he  replied,  with  a  dry,  hard  laugh,  "I  have  not 
seen  one  for  years." 

"  Have  yoii  a  prayer-book  ?" 

"  I  left  the  last  one  that  I  ever  owned  upon  the  table  in  my 
room,  when  I  turned  my  back  upon  Cameron  Hall," 

"  Then  take  this,  George,"  he  said,  taking  one  from  his  pocket, 
"  and  promise  to  read  it.  You  will  find  in  the  ofi&ce  for  the 
visitation  of  prisoners,  and  in  the  prayer  for  persons  under  sen- 
tence of  death,  something  adapted  to  your  wants  and  circum- 
stances." 

He  gave  him  the  book,  open  at  the  place,  and  George  replied, 
r     with  a  poor  attempt  at  levity,  as  he  glanced  at  the  page : 

"  I  am  much  obliged  for  your  intended  kindness,  but,  indeed, 
sir,  I  cannot  accept  it  as  adapted  to  my  circumstances.  This 
prayer  and  exhortation,  for  instance,  are  said  to  be  designed  for 
a  'criminal.'  Xow,  inasmuch  as  I  utterly  disclaim  all  pretensions 
to  being  anything  of  the  sort,  they  are  evidently  not  designed  for 
.  me.  However,  if  it  will  oblige  you,  I  will  read  them,  and  try 
and  find  out  how  a  malefactor  ought  to  feel." 

Uncle  John  heaved  a  deep  sigh  at  the  hardened  and  determined 
indiflference  with  which  the  unhappy  man  was  resolved  to  meet 
his  fate.  He  got  up  to  go  away,  and  George  seemed  to  soften 
again,  as  he  said : 

"  What  has  become  of  my  little  blind  friend?  Was  the  opera- 
tion successful  ?" 

"  It  was  not.  The  surgeon  pronounced  her  hopelessly  blind, 
and  I  brought  her  back  to  her  mother,  several  months  ago." 

"  I  became  singularlv  interested  in  that  child.  She  is  one  of 
the  few  friends  that  I  have  made  of  late  years.  I  am  not  socially 
inclined  now,  but  I  believe  that  I  should  soon  have  learned  to 
love  that  little  blind  musician." 

"  You  are  not  alone  in  that  respect.  Agnes  never  fails  to 
make  friends  of  all  who  know  her.  She  frequently  speaks  of 
you,  and  wonders  if  you  are  any  happier  now  than  you  were 
then." 

An  expression  of  pain  rested  upon  the  prisoner's  face.  The 
kind  recollection,  and  the  sympathy  of  the  blind  child,  evidently 
touched  him  deeply;  and  as  he  held  Uncle  John's  hand,  he  said, 
in  a  subdued  voice  : 

"  Give  my  love  to  her,  and  tell  her  how  much  I  should  like  to 
see  her  once  more.  Don't  tell  her,"  he  added,  averting  his  eyes, 
and  with  a  slight  hesitation,  "where  you  have  seen  me,  and 
under  what  circumstances.  Just  say  to  her  that  you  saw  me  in 
the  army." 


380  CAMERON    HALL. 

Uncle  John  silently  wrung  the  fettered  hand,  and  turned  away. 
The  prisoner  pulled  his  hat  over  his  face,  and  his  head  drooped 
lower  upon  his  breast  than  before,  but  this  time  in  the  attitude  of 
sadness  rather  than  that  of  sullen  defiance. 

Uncle  John  and  Charles  were  sitting  that  night  in  their  hut 
before  the  fire.  Both  were  busy  with  their  thoughts,  and  but 
few  words  had  been  spoken  upon  the  subject  which  engrossed 
their  minds.  They  had  now  been  silent  a  long  time,  and  the 
only  movement  was  an  occasional  rejection  of  the  white  ashes 
from  the  almost  extinguished  cigar.  Uncle  John  was  the  first  to 
speak,  and  then  it  was  rather  thinking  aloud  than  talking. 

"Poor  Julia!  This  will  be  the  overflowing  drop  to  the  brim- 
ming cup." 

Again  there  was  a  dead  silence  of  several  minutes,  and  then 
Charles  answered  : 

"  Yes,  to  one  of  her  integrity  and  right-mindedness,  such  a 
blow  will  be  severe,  indeed." 

*"Ah !  Charles,  you  do  not  know  her  as  I  do.  You  have  never 
seen  her  writhe  under  the  mortification  occasioned  by  her  brother's 
conduct.  You  have  never  heard  the  bitterness  with  which  she 
speaks  of  the  family  disgrace." 

"  Does  she  imagine,  sir,  that  her  brother's  conduct  can  affect 
the  character  of  any  of  the  rest  of  the  family  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  believes  that  it  has  already  involved  them  in  a  com- 
mon shame.  Why,  sir,  she  has  begun  to  be  afraid  of  almost 
everybody;  afraid  to  intrude  herself,  as  she  says,  upon  the  so- 
ciety even  of  friends,  because  she  feels  that  the  honest  and  the 
right-minded  will  now  always  think  of  her  only  as  George  Cam- 
eron's sister.  On  this  point  she  is  wrong,  all  wrong.  This  is 
one  of  those  morbid  notions  which  I  told  you  this  morning  I 
would  like  to  eradicate.  Morbidness  is  scarcely  a  strong  enough 
word  to  express  the  state  of  her  feelings,  and  yet  I  am  afraid 
that  they  are  hopelessly  fixed.  At  least  I  have  exhausted  all  my 
arguments  and  persuasion  in  trying  to  convince  her  that  she  is 


wrong. 


V 


A  light  began  to  dawn  upon  Charles's  understanding,  and  he 
grasped  with  eagerness  what  seemed  a  key  to  the  mystery  of  her 
conduct  toward  him.  He  made  no  reply,  for  Uncle  John's  words 
had  transDorted  him  in  an  instant  to  the  lawn  of  Cameron  Hall, 
on  that  last  night,  when  Julia,  trembling  with  emotion,  yet  firm 
as  a  rock,  had  told  him  of  the  insurmountable  barrier,  the  un- 
alterable determination. 

"She  did  not  know,"  he  thought,  "that  I  had  ever  heard  of 
her  brother's  disgrace,  and  she  scorned  to  take  advantage  of  my 
ignorance,  and  to  bind  me  by  ties  which  nn  honorable  man  cannot 


CAMERON    HALL.  381 

break.  But  when  she  hears  that  I  know  it  all;  that  George 
Cameron's  treason,  were  it,  if  possible,  fouler  and  blacker  than  it 
is,  could  not  in  my  eyes  cast  a  shadow,  much  less  a  stain,  upon 
her;  when  she  knows  that  the  combined  disgrace  of  all  the  Cam- 
erons  upon  earth  could  neither  alter  my  opinion  of  her  nor 
change  my  feelings  toward  her,— then  she  will,  she  must  see  it  in 
a  very  different  light,  and  we  may  yet  be  happy.  I  say  we,  for  I 
remember  well  that  she  did  not  say  she  could  not  love  me;  and  if 
such  had  been  the  truth,  her  truthful  lips  would  certainly  have 
said  it;  and  besides,  I  have  evidence  to  the  contrary." 

Had  Ui!cle  John  been  less  deeply  absorbed  in  his  own  sad 
thoughts,  the  sudden  change  in  Charles's  tone  and  manner  would 
have  seemed  both  surprising  and  unaccountable.  As  it  was,  he 
did  not  notice  the  cheerful,  almost  gay  tone,  with  which  he  said : 
"It  seems  to  me,  Uncle  John,  that  I  could  convince  her  that 
she  took  an  unreasonable  view  of  the  case." 

"  Then  you  are  a  better  logician,  and  a  more  skillful  pleader 
than  I  am,  and  if  you  can,  I  wish  that  you  would  do  it;  it  would 
be  nothing  more  than  common  humanity  to  save  such  a  heart  as 
hers  from  unnecessary  sorrow.  But  I  think,  Charles,  that  you 
are  mistaken.  You  do  not,  perhaps,  overestimate  your  powers, 
but  you  do  not  realize  what  you  have  to  encounter.  Julia  is  not 
hasty  in  her  decisions,  and  consequently  they  strike  the  deeper, 
and  are  the  more  difficult  to  uproot.  The -truth  is,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  anybody  will  be  able  to  change  her  notions  upon  this 
subject.  For  myself,  I  have  long  since  ceased  to  allude  to  it, 
because,  as  I  tell  you,  it  has  never  done  any  good,  and  I  cannot 
bear  to  see  her  shrink  as  if  I  were  touching  a  painful  wound.  To 
one  of  your  profession,  it  needs  no  argument  to  prove  that  where 
a  wound  is  incurable,  it  is  neither  wise  nor  kind  to  persist  in  the 
torture  of  the  probe  and  the  knife." 

^  Uncle  John's  words  again  plunged  Charles  into  a  reverie,  and 
his  castle  of  hope,  reared  as  it  had  been  upon  the  foundation  of 
a  single  word,  was  now  as  quickly  demolished,  as  he  "thought : 

"If  Uncle  John,  the  old  privileged  friend,  cannot  approach 
this  subject,  how  can  I  dare  to  do  it?  And  yet,  if  I  do  not  tell 
her  that  this  insurmountable  barrier  is  no  barrier  at  all  to  me,  she 
will  still  think  that  it  separates  us  as  widely  as  ever.  I  will  ask 
Uncle  John  if  he  does  not  think  that  the  interests  involved  will 
justify  the  pain  that  I  must  inflict,  and  he  shall  advise  me.  But 
no,  I  cannot  do  that  either,  for  my  promise  binds  me." 

He  was  bewildered  and  perplexed,  and  the  remainder  of  this, 
their  last  evening  together,  was  spent  in  thoughtful  silence. 

_  The  next  morning  Uncle  John  returned  home.     Walter  held 
his  hand,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice; 


382  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Tell  sister  that  I  would  give  anything  on  earth  to  be  at  home 
now.  I  would  like  to  hide  my  head  from  all  the  world  until  this 
is  forgotten.  But  as  this  cannot  be,  tell  her  that  I  shall  only 
strive  the  harder  to  do  my  duty,  so  that  the  faithfulness  of  one 
Caoieron  shall,  so  far  as  may  be,  atone  for  the  errors  and  crime 
of  another." 

"  Cheer  up,  Charles,"  said  Uncle  John,  as  he  took  leave  of  him. 
"As  soon  as  I  think  that  you  may  come  to  Hopedale  without  risk, 
I  will  write  for  you.  The  air  and  the  society,"  he  added,  with 
peculiar  emphasis  upon  the  last  word,  "will  refresh  and  invigorate 
you." 

"And  I,  sir,  will  need  no  urging,  if  I  can  be  spared  for  a  few 
days,  and  can  come  safely." 

All  the  way  home.  Uncle  John  was  thinking,  with  a  troubled 
heart,  of  the  sad  duty  before  him.  To  have  told  them  of  Walter's 
death  would  have  been  painful  enough;  how  much  worse  to  tell 
them  of  the  fearful  doom,  the  punishment  of  treachery,  that 
awaited  the  eldest  son,  the  eldest  brother  !  But  while  he  dreaded 
the  unwelcome  task,  he  yet  rejoiced,  for  their  sakes,  that  they 
would  not  hear  it  from  iuditfereut  lips,  but  would  first  learn  it 
from  one  who  knew  the  pain  that  he  inflicted,  and  would  sympa- 
thize with  the  sorrow  that  he  gave. 

When  he  reached  the  Hall,  he  was  met  by  both  the  girls,  who 
ran  out  to  welcome  him.  Eva  was  all  eagerness  to  get  the  letter 
that  she  was  sure  Willie  had  sent,  and  Julia's  face  wore  a  happier 
look  than  he  had  seen  for  a  long  while,  as  she  thought  that  now 
she  would  hear  something  directly  from  Charles  as  well  as  Walter. 
Poor  Uncle  John  was  more  troubled  than  ever,  when  he  saw  her 
face  so  lighted  up,  and  he  tried  hard  to  keep  his  own  from  betray- 
ing the  pain  that  was  at  his  heart.  But  her  quick  eye  at  once 
detected  something  wrong,  and  with  the  smile  upon  her  face  in- 
stantly frozen,  she  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  agony: 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John,  you  have  bad  news  for  us  I" 

"Yes,  my  daughter,"  he  answered,  sadly,  "but  not  what  you 
fear.     Walter  and  Willie  are  both  well." 

"And  Charles  ?"  she  gasped,  forgetting  for  the  moment  that 
she  had  seemingly  no  right  to  be  so  anxious  about  him." 

At  another  time,  Uncle  John  would  have  been  surprised  ;  but 
now  his  thoughts  were  otherwise  engrossed,  and  he  answered,  with- 
out thinking : 

"Charles,  Julia,  is  well." 

He  took  a  hand  of  each  of  the  girls,  and  led  them  into  the 
library,  and  there  told  his  sad  story.  Eva  listened  with  more 
anger  than  sorrow.  She  felt  her  own  and  her  family's  wrongs 
more  than  the  miserable  fate  of  her  stranger-brother.     She  felt 


CAMERON    HALL.  -  383 

as  if  she  had  been  injured  by  one  whose  connection  with  her  was 
that  of  circumstance  or  accident  rather  than  the  alliance  of  flesh 
and  blood  ;  and  she  was  disposed  to  resent  it  as  an  injury  rather 
than  to  receive  it  as  an  affliction.  But  Julia  viewed  it  otherwise. 
Once,  she  too  had  felt  a  resentment  for  which  she  had  reproached 
herself,  but  which  she  could  not  then  overcome ;  but  it  was  all 
gone  now.  There  was  no  room  for  anger  in  her  heart  now.  There 
was  nothing  but  a  leaden  weight  of  grief  and  horror  at  the 
thought  of  her  brother's  doom. 

Her  father  was  not  at  home,  and  at  her  earnest  request  Uncle 
John  stayed,  until  his  return,  to  tell  him. 

''I  cannot.  Uncle  John,"  she  said,  with  quivering  lip,  "  I  cannot 
tell  him  this.     Poor  papa!" 

Uncle  John  went  home  immediately  after  tea,  and  as  soon  as 
he  was  gone,  they  all  went  to  their  several  rooms :  Mr.  Cameron 
to  brood  in  solitude  over  a  calamity  which  far  outweighed  all  the 
happiness  of  his  life ;  Eva  to  try  and  forget  her  sorrow  and  anger 
in  another  perusal  of  Willie's  letter,  whose  assurances  of  sympa- 
thy and  love  made  her  young  heart  feel  that  no  trial  could  be 
intolerable  so  long  as  she  had  him  to  share  it;    and  Julia  to 
ponder  in  loneliness  a  sorrow  bitterer  far  to  her  than  death.  For 
awhile,  all  else  was  swallowed  up  in  the  single  thought  that  her 
brother  was  about  to  be  launched  into  eternity  by  a  sudden  and 
violent  death,  and  her  heart  sickened  at  the  recollection  that 
there  was  nothing  in  all  his  past  history,  and  especially  nothing 
in  his  present  circumstances,  to  warrant  her  in  hoping  that  he  was 
prepared  to  meet  his  doom.     Uncle  John  had  not  told  them  one 
word  of  regret  or  repentance ;  he  had  told  nothing  on  which  she 
dared  to  build  the  slightest  hope,  and  well  she  knew  that  if  there 
had  been  one  look  or  word  which  could  have  afforded  comfort, 
his  kind,  considerate  heart  would  have  treasured  it  up  and  brought 
it  home.   By  degrees,  other  thoughts  came  into  her  mind ;  thoughts 
of  her  father's  blighted  and  dishonored  age  ;   of  her  young  brother, 
whose  message  to  her  had  touched  her  to  the  heart.   She  thought 
of  herself,  her  own  keen  suffering,  and  wondered  if  this  sensitive 
shrinking  from  dishonor  and  disgrace,  this  anxiety  that  all  who 
were  connected  with  her  should  stand  pure  and  fair,  not  only  in 
the  sight  of  God,  but  also  of  their  fellow-men,— if  this  feeling 
could  be  wrong,  could  be  a  sin.     Lastly,  she  thought  of  Charles'; 
and  while  her  heart  was  wrung  by  the  certainty  that  now  they 
were  sundered  by  a  barrier  which  he  himself  would  think  impass- 
able, yet  at  the  same  time  her  true  nature  rejoiced  that  he  was 
not  bound  to  her  by  the  tie  even  of  a  plighted  word ;  that  he 
was  not  reduced  to  the  painful  alternative  of  either  breaking  his 
faith  or  marrying  the  sister  of  George  Cameron.     Now  she  felt 


384  CAMERON     HALL 

t 

assured  that  the  subject  would  never  be  renewed  :  indeed,  she 
thought  that  she  and  Charles  had  seen  each  other  for  the  last 
time,  and  from  her  inmost  soul  she  thanked  God  that  she  had 
been  enabled  to  stand  so  firm,  and  to  do  what  she  believed  to  be 
right,  amid  so  many  and  so  strong  temptations,  both  from  his 
entreaties  and  her  own  earnest  longings. 

"Farewell,  Charles  I"  she  thought.  "If  you  marry  at  all,  it 
must  be  a  woman  whose  name  as  well  as  character  is  without  a 
stain." 

Before  he  went  home,  Uncle  John  stopped  at  the  cottage  to 
see  Grace  and  Agnes,  and  to  deliver  George  Cameron's  message. 
He  said  nothing  to  Grace,  in  Agnes's  presence,  of  the  painful 
subject  of  his  thoughts  ;  but  leading  the  child  away  from  the 
organ  to  her  little  chair  by  the  fire,  he  said  : 

"Do  you  remember,  my  daughter,  the  gloomy  stranger  upon 
the  steamer  who  became  your  friend  ?" 

"Yery  well,  sir,"  she  answered,  her  face  brightening. 

"I  saw  him  at  the  camp  the  other  day,  and  he  recognized  me 
the  moment  that  he  saw  me.  He  inquired  particularly  about 
you,  and  sent  his  love  to  you,  and  says  that  it  would  give  him 
great  pleasure  to  see  you  again." 

"Is  he  a  soldier,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"Yes,  Agnes." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  I  know  that  he  must  be  happier  now  than 
he  used  to  be.  He  told  me  on  the  steamer  that  he  was  lonely, 
that -he  had  no  friends,  and  nothing  to  do  that  interested  him; 
but  now  that  he  is  in  camp,  with  all  the  other  soldiers,  he  must 
have  plenty  of  company ;  and  if  he  is  fighting  for  his  country  he 
has  found  something  to  interest  him.  Poor  Mr.  George !  I  am 
so  glad  that  he  is  happier.     Did  he  look  so.  Uncle  Juhn  ?" 

"He  always  looked  sad,  Agnes.  You  know  I  have  often  told 
you  so." 

"You  said  that  he  looked  dark  and  frowning,  Uncle  John, 
and  did  not  look  like  a  good  man.  Do  you  think  he  is  a  better 
one  now?" 

"  How  can  I  tell,  my  daughter  ?"  he  answered,  beginning  to 
be  painfully  perplexed,  and  not  knowing  exactly  how  to  evade 
the  questions  which  he  had  promised  not  to  answer. 

"Did  you  ask  him  to  come  to  Hopedale,  and  pay  you  and  me 
a  visit  ?" 

"No,  I  did  not." 

"Now,  Uncle  John,  I  wonder  that  you  did  not;  because  you 
are  generally  so  kind  to  everybody,  and  Mr.  George  has  so  few 
friends.  I  wish  that  I  could  see  him  again,Jor  I  always  liked 
him,  although  you  did  not.     He  was  very  kind  to  me — and  then, 


CAMEROX     HALL.  385 

besides,  you  remember  that  he  told  me  I  was  both  a  comfort  and 
a  pleasure  to  him.  If  I  come  over  some  day,  will  you  write  him 
a  letter  for  me  ?    I  will  tell  you  what  to  say." 

"Yes,  Agnes,"  Uncle  John  answered,  abstractedly;  "I  will 
write  for  you  when  you  wish  it." 

When  he  was  ready  to  go,  he  led  Agnes  back  to  the  organ ; 
and  then  she  had  begun  to  play,  he  motioned  Grace  to  follow 
him.  When  they  were  out  of  hearing  of  the  child,  he  told  her  in 
as  few  words  as  possible  the  story  of  George  Cameron.  When 
be  had  finished,  he  said  : 

"Agnes  must  not  know  anything  of  this,  for  I  am  pledged  not 
to  tell  her.  He  himself  requested  it.  The  only  softness  that  he 
evinced  at  all,  was  in  his  unwillingness  that  the  innocent,  blind 
child  should  know  his  present  condition  and  circumstances.  He 
wishes  her  still  to  know  him  only  as  'her  steamer  friend.'" 

To  Uncle  John's  great  surprise,  Grace  was  much  more  over- 
come by  his  story  than  had  been  either  of  George  Cameron's  sis- 
ters. With  a  deep  groan  she  sank  into  the  nearest  chair,  and 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  trembled  violently.  Uncle  John 
asked  anxiously: 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Grace  ?" 

She  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  He  tried  to  raise  her  up,  and 
said  : 

"  You  are  trembling  like  a  leaf.  It  is  too  cold  for  you  here. 
Go  back  to  the  fire." 

"Oh,  no  !"  she  answered,  with  a  shudder,  "not  there  I  "  Not 
where  Agnes  is  I" 

Uncle  John  said  no  more,  but  watched  her  some  minutes  in 
silent  amazement.  Presently  she  sprang  up  suddenly,  and  stood 
before  him,  her  face  perfectly  white  and  rigid. 

"  Uncle  John,"  she  said,  "  will  you  do  me  a  favor?" 

"Yes,  Grace.     You  need  not  have  asked  the  question." 

"  Will  you  take  Agnes  to-morrow  to  Richmond,  and  keep  her 
there  until — until — until  it  is  all  over  ?  He  wants  to  see  her, 
and,  under  the  circumstances,  I  have  no  right  to  deny  the  father 
the  privilege  of  seeing  his  child." 

Uncle  John  staggered  and  reeled,  and  only  saved  himself  from 
falling  by  grasping  a  chair.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  fore- 
head and  looked  around  dreamily  and  vacantly,  so  stupefied  with 
amazement  that  he  did  not  know  where  he  was,  or  what  he 
did. 

Grace  waited  for  a  reply,  but  receiving  none,  she  asked 
again  : 

"Will  you  do  it,  Uncle  John  ?" 

33 


386  CAMERON     HALL. 

« 

"Do  what,  Grace?"  be  asked,  looking  at  her  with  a  vacant 
stare.     "What  is  it  that  I  must  do  ?    Am  I  dreaming  ?"     . 

"  No,  Uncle  John,  you  are  not  dreaming,  nor  am  I.  Would  to 
God  I  were  !" 

"  Well,  tell  me, — what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  only  mean  to  ask  you,  if  you  will  add  one  more  to  the  many 
kindnesses  that  you  have  done  my  child,  and  take  her  to  see  her 
father  before — before  he  dies." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  George  Cameron's  wife, — 
that  Agnes  is  his  child  ?" 

"Yes,  I  mean  it  all.  Ask  no  more  now.  Some  day  when 
I  can,  I  will  tell  you  all.      You  will  take  Agnes  to-morrow  ?" 

"Yes." 

He  grasped  her  hand,  looked  one  moment  earnestly  into  her 
face,  rushed  out  of  the  house,  and  was  gone. 

It  was  only  when  he  found  himself  at  home  trying  to  collect 
his  scattered  thoughts  that  he  remembered  all,  and  even  then  he 
could  not  convince  himself  that  it  was  reality.  Xo  wonder  that 
in  the  tumult  and  chaos  of  his  thoughts  Uncle  John  should  have 
believed  that  he  was  dreaming!  Xo  wonder  that  he  could  not 
realize  that  in  Grace,  the  gentle  friend  of  his  old  age,  he  had 
found  the  child-angel,  the  comforter  of  his  youth ;  and  that  in  his 
love  for  the  blind  child,  the  granddaughter  of  Lucy  Ellsworth, 
he  should  have  found  the  compensation  for  his  early  disappoint- 
ment !  He  remembered  the  old  man,  his  guest,  dying  within 
speaking  distance  of  the  child  whom  he  had  so  long  looked  for 
in  vain.  He  thought  of  George  Cameron,  about  to  die  a  felon's 
death  within  reach  of  the  wife  whom  he  had  once  loved,  then  de- 
serted, then  sought  again,  and  against  whom  he  had  finally  be- 
come embittered,  while  all  these  years  she  had  quietly  lived  near 
his  father's  home,  and,  together  with  her  blind  child,  had  been 
admitted  as  a  friend  within  that  home-circle  which,  in  the  way- 
wardness of  vouth,  he  had  left  forever  in  a  voluntarv  exile.  Xo 
wonder  that  Uncle  John  sprang  from  his  chair  and  walked  hastily 
up  and  down  the  room,  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  indeed 
awake. 

When  Grace  returned  to  the  parlor,  she  threw  herself  into 
Agnes's  little  chair  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  She 
rapidly  reviewed  the  events  of  her  past  life,  of  which  sorrow  and 
disappointment  had  made  so  large  a  part,  and  wondered,  as  she 
had  often  done  before,  why  it  was  that  she  needed  such  sore 
chastening.  This  was  the  crowning  sorrow,  the  one  in  com- 
parison with  which  all  the  rest  seemed  as  nothing.  She  remem- 
bered the  husband  of  her  youth,  the  man  upon  whom  she  had 
lavished  all  the  affection  of  her  young  heart,  and  though  she  had 


CAMERON    HALL.  387 

feit  for  years  that  her  love  for  him  was  all  dead,  still  he  was  her 
husband,  the  father  of  her  child,  and  his  ignominy  and  disgrace 
stung  her  to  her  inmost  soul.  She  had  borne  desertion  ;  under 
it,  her  heart  had  withered  silently  and  without  complaint.  Now 
she  writhed  and  groaned  under  this  heavier  chastening,  this  in- 
tolerable sorrow.  Her  only  relief  was  the  thought  that  Agnes 
was  happily  unconscious  of  the  dishonored  name  bequeathed  hlr 
by  the  crime  of  her  wretched  father.  And  while  her  heart  ached, 
and  her  face  wore  an  expression  of  deepest  suffering,  the  child 
played  on,  a  sweet,  soothing  strain,  too  soft  and  low  to  be  heard 
amid  the  wild  tumult  of  thoughts,  memories,  and  feelings  in  her 
mother's  heart.  The  music  ceased,  but  Grace  knew  it  not. 
Presently  Agnes  asked  : 

"  Was  that  sweet,  mother  ?" 

The  question  was  unheard  and  unanswered ;  and  Grace  was 
only  roused  when  an  outstretched,  wandering  hand  rested  upon 
her  head. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  mother  ?    Are  you  crying  ?" 

"No,  my  child." 

"  Well,  you  are  troubled,  for  your  voice  says  so.  What  is  it, 
mother  ?" 

And  now  came  the  struggle.  Grace  was  to  propose  to  Agnes 
a  visit  to  her  father,  and  gain  her  consent,  without  disclosing  to 
her  either  his  name,  circumstances,  or  relation  to  herself,  and  this 
was  to  be  done  without  betraying  by  word  or  tone  that  she 
knew  aught  of  the  stranger  except  that  he  had  been  interested 
in  and  kind  to  her  child.  It  was  not  the  first  successful  effort 
that  she  had  made  in  her  life  to  keep  the  cloud  which  shadowed 
her  own  heart  from  deepening  the  blindness  of  the  child,  but 
never  before  had  it  cost  her  such  a  struggle. 

"Agnes,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  in  spite  of  all  her 
efforts,  "you  are  looking  pale  and  thin  as  you  did  before  Uncle 
John  took  you  away  last  spring,  and  I  want  to  send  you  off 
again." 

"Oh,  mother,  not  to  Paris  !"  exclaimed  the  child,  piteously. 

"  Xo,  my  daughter,  not  Paris,  but  only  to  Richmond,  where 
you  can  go  in  a  day  and  a  half." 

"  What  for,  mother  ?  Indeed,  I  would  rather  not.  It  does 
not  give  me  pleasure,  as  it  does  other  children,  to  travel.  I  can- 
not see,  and  I  am  all  the  time  afraid  that  I  will  be  lost,  or  that 
something  will  run  over  me,  and  I  am  never  qniet  and  contented 
unless  I  hold  somebody's  hand.  I  am  safe  and  happy  at  home 
with  you ;  please,  mother,  don't  send  me  away." 

"  I  will  not  force  you  to  go,  my  child.  Uncle  John  proposes 
to  go  with  you ;  you  will  only  be  away  from  me  a  few  days,  and 


388  CAMERON    HALL. 

• 

you  know  that  he  will  take  as  good  care  of  you  as  I  can.  If  you 
go,  Agnes,  you  will  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your — your 
friend,  Mr.  George.     Would  you  not  like  that  ?" 

"Yery  much,  but  I  would  rather  that  he  should  come  here  to 
see  me.     Suppose  you  write  and  ask  him." 

"  That  would  be  useless,  Agnes.  A  soldier  cannot  leave  the 
afmy  to  make  a  visit  whenever  he  chooses.  You  seem  to  like 
him  so  much,  that  I  should  suppose  you  would  be  glad  to  meet 
him  again,  especially  as  he  particularly  desires  it." 

"And  so  I  would,  mother;  and  if  I  were  not  blind,  I  should 
like  nothing  better  than  to  go  to  Richmond  with  Uncle  Joiin. 
And  even  as  it  is,  if  he  were  sick  or  in  trouble,  and  I  could  do 
him  any  good,  I  would  gladly  go;  but  if  Mr.  George  is  well,  and 
in  camp  with  so  many  soldiers,  he  cannot  need  the  company  of  a 
blind  child.  He  only  sent  me  that  message  because  he  thought 
that  I  would  be  pleased  to  know  that  he  remembered  me,  but  I 
don't  believe  that  he  intended  or  expected  me  to  come  and  see 
him,  do  vou  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  he  said  that  it  would  gratify  "him.  How- 
ever, you  need  not  think  any  more  about  it,  for  you  shall  not  go 
unless  you  are  perfectly  willing.  I  thought  that  a  visit  of  a  few 
days  with  Uncle  John  would  be  both  pleasant  and  beneficial  to 
you,  and  I  mentioned  your  friend  as  another  inducement  for  you 
to  go." 

"  But,  mother,  why  do  you  want  me  to  go  to  Richmond  ?  Mr. 
George  is  not  there,  for  Uncle  John  saw  him  in  camp  with  Dr. 
Charles  and  Mr.  Walter." 

"  He  went  to  Richmond,  Agnes,  while  Uncle  John  was  in 
camp." 

Agnes  did  not  give  her  consent,  but  her  mother  said  no  more, 
for  she  was  persuaded  that  Uncle  John's  influence,  added  to 
what  she  had  already  said,  would  decide  the  matter.  Grace  was 
worn  out  and  exhausted  and  longed  to  be  alone,  that  without 
restraint  her  burdened  heart  might  relieve  itself  Agnes  went 
to  bed  and  was  soon  enjoying  the  sweet  sleep  of  childhood,  hap- 
pily blind  alike  to  the  cloud  upon  her  mother's  face  and  her 
mother's  heart. 

The  next  morning,  as  Grace  had  foreseen,  a  single  earnest 
request  from  Uncle  John  decided  Agnes  to  accompany  him  to 
Richmond.  She  had  been  taught  by  her  mother  never  for  one 
moment  to  weigh  her  own  inclinations  against  the  wishes  of  him 
who  had  done  so  much  for  her;  and  now,  whatever  objections  she 
might  have  had,  he  did  not  know  them,  for  she  acquiesced  at 
once  in  the  arrangement.  At  twelve  o'clock  they  left  for  Rich- 
mond. 


CAMERON    HALL.  389 

"  Don't  tell  her  that  she  is  going  to  see  her  father,"  said  Grace. 
"I  earnestly  hope  that  he  will  not  tell  her  himself.  I  have  suf- 
fered enough  for  both.  I  trust  that  he  will  have  mercy  on  his 
blind  child,  and  spare  her." 

"  Have  you  any  message  for  him,  Grace  ?" 

"None,"  she  answered. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then,  speaking  as  if  each 
word  cost  a  pang,  she  said  ; 

"Uncle  John,  my  love  for  hin;  was  a  long  time  dving,  and  tlie 
struggle  nearly  cost  me  my  life;  but  it  is  dead  now,''dead,  dead!'' 

Ao:ain  she  paused;   and  presently  she  added,  with  a  start: 

"No,  I  have  no  message.  The  child  is  sufficient,  and  if—and 
if  he  should  doubt  her  identity,  this  will  prove  it."    " 

She  placed  in  his  hand  a  letter,  yellow  with  age,  saying: 
^    "_  You  need  not  give  it  unless  he  seems  to  doubt.    I  would  not 
inflict  unnecessary  pain." 

She  grasped  his  hand,  and  said,  with  emotion : 

"  God  bless  you,  Uncle  John,  for  the  kindness  that  never  fails 
me.  May  He  reward  you  ;  I  never  can.  From  you,  the  stranger, 
1  have  met  with  that  sympathy  and  kindness  which  I  ought  to 
have  received  from  others,  upon  whom  I  had  a  stronger  claim." 

She  turned  away,  and  hurried  off,  without  waiting  to  hear 
Uncle  John's  answer. 

"Not  So  much  of  a  stranger,  Grace,  as  we  have  both  thouo-ht 
all  along;  nor  does  the  obligation  rest  alone  upon  you.  My 
debt  of  gratitude  goes  farther  back,  even  beyond  your  recollec- 
tion, and  the  old  man's  kindness  can  never  repay  the  blessing 
and  benefit  conferred  by  the  child !" 

The  day  was  cold,  the  road  rough,  and  their  horse  by  no 
means  the  best;  and  after  an  hour's  riding  Agnes  be^an  to  be 
tired.  ° 

''  How  long,  Uncle  John,  before  we  get  to  the  railroad  ?" 
"  We  will  not  take  the  cars  before  to-morrow  morning,  Agnes. 
We  will  have  to  spend  to-night  at  a  station,  not  many  miles 
from  home.    Don't  you  know  that  the  Yankees  have  torn  up  the 
road?"  ^ 

I*  Yes,  sir,  I  know  it;   but  I  cannot  imagine  why  they  did  it." 
^    "Because  it  is  Southern  property,  and  its  destruction  would 
injure  Southern  people.     For  the   same  reason  they  took  my 
horses,  and  Mr.  Cameron's,  and  burned  up  his  barns  and  his 
meat." 

"I  wish  that  they  had  left  the  railroad,  Uncle  John.  The 
cars  are  so  much  pleasanter  than  a  buggy,  especially  when  it  is 
so  cold." 

33* 


390  CAMERON    HALL. 

Uncle  John  saw  that  she  was  shivering,  so  he  checked  the 
horse,  and  wrapped  the  buffalo  robe  closely  around  her  feet,  and 
spread  a  blanket  over  her  lap. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "you  will  be  warm  and  comfortable  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  perhaps,  if  I  try  to  entertain  you,  you  will  forget 
that  you  are  jolting  along  over  a  rough,  disagreeable  road.  Let 
us  see.     You  know  my  child-angel,  Agnes  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Do  you  remember,  a  long  time  ago,  when  I  first  told  you  all 
about  her,  that  I  said  I  wondered  what  kind  of  a  woman  she  had 
grown  to  be ;  and  that  if  she  had  fulfilled  the  promise  of  her 
childhood,  I  would  like  so  much  to  find  her,  and  live  with  her  the 
rest  of  my  life  ?     Do  you  recollect  it  all,  Agnes  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  hastily;  "and  I  remember,  too,  that 
you  promised,  Uncle  John,  never  to  leave  me,  even  if  you  should 
find  her.     Don't  you  remember  ?"  she  added,  anxiously. 

He  did  not  answer  her  question,  but  only  replied : 

"  I  have  found  her,  Agnes. " 

She  started,  with  an  expression  of  pain,  as  if  some  dire  calamity 
had  overtaken  her.  She  was  silent  a  few  moments,  and  then  ex- 
claimed, in  a  tone  of  mingled  doubt  and  apprehension : 

"But  you  are  not  going  to  live  with  her.  Uncle  John?" 

"I  trust  so,  my  daughter,  all  the  rest  of  my  life." 

He  was  thinking  less  of  Agnes  at  that  moment  than  of  her 
mother,  and  had  quite  forgotten  her  invincible  jealousy  of  his  af- 
fection for  this  child.  He  was  first  made  conscious  of  the  effect 
of  his  words,  by  a  burst  of  tears,  as  she  exclaimed,  reproachfully, 
and  almost  passionately : 

"But  you  promised,  Uncle  John,  you  promised  that  you  would 
never  leave  me  1  Your  child-angel  can  see,  and  does  not  need 
you;  but  I  am  blind,  and  cannot  do  without  you.  What  will 
become  of  me  when  you  are  gone  ?" 

"I  am  not  gone,  my  daughter,  nor  am  I  going.  I  still  in- 
tend to  take  care  of  you,  as  long  as  I  live,  just  as  I  have  done 
these  many  years."  • 

"Are  you  going  to  Richmond  to  see  her?" 

**  No,  Agnes ;  but  even  if  I  were,  you  need  not  be  jealous  of 
my  love  for  her.  She  is  no  longer  a  child.  You  must  remember 
that  Uncle  John  is  now  an  old  man,  and  she  is  now  a  woman  as 
old  as  your  mother." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  replied,  with  evident  relief.  "  I 
bad  forgotten  that.  I  always  think  of  her  as  a  little  girl,  like 
myself." 

"  She  can  never  come  between  you  and  Uncle  John's  heart, 
Agnes;  and  if  she  had  her  choice  this  moment,  she  would  much 


CAMERON    HALL  391 

rather  that  he  should  be  kind  and  affectionate  to  you  than  to 
herself." 

"  Who  told  you  where  she  was,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"Her  father." 

"And  where  did  you  see  him?" 

"  Do  you  remember  the  old  soldier,  who  died  at  my  house  last 
summer,  that  I  used  to  tell  you  about  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  He  was  her  father;  and  he  told  me  something  just  before  he 
died  that  has  enabled  me  to  find  her.  But  I  never  found  out, 
until  last  night,  who  she  was,  and  where  she  lived." 

*'And  who  is  she.  Uncle  John  ?"  she  asked,  as  if  anxious,  and 
yet  half  reluctant  to  know. 

"Her  name  is  Grace,  and  she  lives  in  Hopedale,  and  has  a 
little  blind  daughter  named  Agnes." 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John,  Uncle  John  1"  exclaimed  the  delighted  child, 
"  I  am  so  glad,  so  happy  1" 

He  drew  her  up  close  to  him,  and  could  plainly  feel  the  quick 
beatings  of  her  glad  heart. 

Her  surprise  and  pleasure  kept  her  silent  for  several  minutes ; 
and  then  she  asked,  suddenly : 

"Didn't  you  say  just  now  that  her  father  told  you?  You 
don't  mean,  Uncle  John,  that  the  sick  old  man  at  your  house 
was  my  mother's  father  ?" 

"Yes,  her  father,  and  your  grandfather." 

"  Then  why  didn't  he  tell  us  so,  Uncle  John?" 

"  Because  he  did  not  know  it  himself.  He  would  have  given 
all  the  world  to  have  found  you  before  he  died." 

"But  why  didn't  he  know?" 

"Because  he  was  a  sailor  a  great  many  years  of  his  life,  and 
lived  on  the  ocean,  so  that  he  never  saw  your  mother  after  he 
sent  her  away  on  the  ship  where  I  first  knew  her.  After  she 
grew  to  be  a  woman,  he  went  to  the  town  where  he  thought  that 
she  lived,  but  she  was  gone,  nobody  knew  where,  and  he  tried  for 
a  long  while  to  find  her,  but  never  could." 

"But,  Uncle  John,  what  made  her  go  away  without  telling 
anybody  where  she  was  going,  and  why  did  she  not  write  to  her 
father  and  tell  him  where  she  intended  to  live  ?" 

Uncle  John  felt  that  he  was  rapidly  approaching  delicate 
ground,  and  that  he  had  already  inadvertently  aroused  an  in- 
satiable childish  curiosity.  He  was  greatly  perplexed.  To  re- 
fuse a  reply,  would  only  sharpen  the  curiosity  which  he  wished 
to  allay,  and  so  he  thought  it  best  to  give  an  indifferent  answer, 
and  then  beat  as  hasty  a  retreat  as  possible  from  the  dangerous 
subject.     So  he  replied : 


392  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Her  father  was  sailing  about  in  a  ship  all  round  the  world, 
and  she  did  not  know  where  to  send  a  letter  to  him.  And  be- 
sides, she  had  already  written  him  several,  and  having  received  no 
answer,  she  thought  that  perhaps  he  was  dead,  and  so  she  did 
not  write  any  more." 

Without  waiting  for  another  question,  Uncle  John  now  changed 
the  subject,  and  although  several  times  during  the  afternoon  her 
thoughts  were  evidently  returning  to  it  again,  he  adroitly  pre- 
vented its  renewal. 

The  next  evening  they  arrived  in  Richmond,  and  Uncle  John 
found  that  George  Cameron's  case  had  been  tried  that  day,  but 
the  decision  was  not  yet  made  known  to  the  public.  He  himself 
was  satisfied  what  it  would  be,  and  was  therefore  not  surprised  to 
hear,  that  night,  that  he  had  been  condemned  to  a  speedy  execu- 
tion, and  that  two  more  days  would  complete  his  earthly  life. 

Uncle  John  was  personally  known  to  some  of  the  authorities 
at  Richmond,  and  through  their  influence  obtained  access  to  the 
prisoner,  a  favor  which  could  not  be  refused  when  he  made  known 
the  object  of  his  mission. 

The  next  morning  early  he  went  alone  to  the  prisoner's  cell. 
He  was,  of  course,  greatly  surprised  to  see  his  unexpected  visitor, 
nor  could  Uncle  John  quite  decide,  from  his  manner,  whether  the 
surprise  was  an  agreeable  or  an  unwelcome  one.  There  was  more 
of  coldness  and  hardness  in  his  present  greeting  than  there  had 
been  in  his  farewell  a  few  days  before,  but  there  was  none  of  that 
positive  repugnance  and  aversion  which  he  had  manifested  during 
the  greater  part  of  their  former  interview. 

Instead  of  rejecting  his  offered  hand,  as  Uncle  John  almost 
expected  him  to  do,  he  took  it  kindly,  and  said : 

"  I  did  not  expect  another  visit  from  you,  sir.  I  thought  that 
we  had  parted  for  the  last  time  in  this  world." 

"And  so  did  I,  George,"  replied  Uncle  John,  sorrowfully. 
"Since  I  can  give  you  neither  comfort  nor  benefit,  believe  me 
that  I  would  not  voluntarily  have  repeated  the  pain  of  that  other 
parting.  This  interview  is  none  of  my  seeking.  I  come,  at  the 
request  of  your  wife,  to  bring  to  you,  before  you  die,  your 
daughter  and  hers." 

His  chains  alone  prevented  his  start  of  surprise  from  becoming 
a  leap.  At  first  he  did  not  answer.  He  was  dumb  with  amaze- 
ment ;  but  in  a  little  while  the  frown  upon  his  brow  deepened 
into  a  furrow,  and  his  eye  gleamed  with  passion,  as  he  exclaimed, 
angrily : 

"Thou  liest,  by  Heaven,  old  man  I  Did  you  not  yourself  ask 
me,  only  two  days  ago,  who  and  where  my  wife  was,  and  give  me 
your  reasons  for  asking  these  questions  ?     Now  you  come  to  me 


CAMERON    HALL.  393 

professing  to  bring  my  child,  who  has  been  sent  by  mj  wife  I 
Methinks  you  must  take  me  for  both  boy  and  dotard.  The  other 
day  you  catechised  me  like  the  one,  now  you  would  cheat  me  as 
if  I  were  the  other !  Would  to  God  you  could  let  me  die  in 
peace,  without  raking  up  all  the  torturing  memories  of  my  whole 
life  to  haunt  me  at  its  close  I" 

"God  forbid,"  replied  Uncle  John,  solemnly,  "that  I  should 
add  to  the  torture  which  you  now  bear  I  I  repeat,  that  I  would 
not  willingly  have  intruded  myself  upon  you  now  ;  but  under  the 
circumstances  I  could  not  refuse  your  wife's  request." 

"And  pray  where  did  you  so  unexpectedly  find  my  wife  and 
child?"  ^ 

"  In  Hopedale,  where  I  have  known  them  for  years;  but  never, 
until  since  I  saw  you,  as  the  wife  and  child  of  George  Cameron." 

"In  Hopedale!"  he  repeated,  sneeringly  and  bitterly.  "And 
so  my  father  and  his  family  have  helped  to  separate  me  from  my 
wife  and  child  I  Doubtless,  they  thought  that  the  boy  who  could 
not  appreciate  such  home-ties  as  they  had  offered  him,  would  not 
be  fitted,  as  a  man,  to  take  care  of  his  own  wife  and  child  !  I 
doubt  not  they  have  done  it  much  better  than  I  could,  and  I  owe 
them  much  for  having  relieved  me  of  the  trouble  1" 

The  scorn  and  bitterness  with  which  he  spoke  were  absolutely 
intolerable  to  Uncle  John,  and  it  required  a  great  effort  for  him 
to  control  himself  sufficiently  to  reply  caloily. 

"You  do  them  gross  injustice,  George.  'Unless. your  wife  has 
herself  told  them,  since  I  left  Hopedale,  of  her  relationship  to  yon, 
your  father  and  sisters  are  still  ignorant  of  it." 

"  She  must  have  learned  to  keep  a  secret,"  he  answered,  "  bet- 
ter than  most  of  her  sex,  if  she  has  lived  years,  as  you  say,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  my  father's  family,  and  has  never  by  word  or 
look  betrayed  her  connection  with  them." 

"It  may  be  remarkable,  but  it  is  nevertheless  true.  For  years, 
your  father  and  sisters  have  loved  her  as  a  dear  friend,  without 
suspecting  that  she  was  more  ;  and  her  child  could  not  have  been 
dearer  to  them,  if  they  had  known  the  closeness  of  the  tie  that 
bound  her  to  them." 

"  If  not  to  seek  their  aid  and  countenance,  will  you  please  to 
tell  me  why  she  should  have  selected  their  home  as  hers  ?" 

"That  question  she  must  herself  answer.  I  cannot.  I  know 
nothing  of  the  history  of  her  past  life,  except  what  I  have  heard 
from  yourself  and  her  father.  Though  our  intercourse  has  for 
years  been  in  all  other  respects  without  reserve,  yet  she  has  never 
made  the  slightest  allusion  to  her  past  life." 

"And  what  of  my  daughter  ?    What  is  she  like  ?" 

"You  are  the  best  judge  of  that.    She  is  the  blind  child  whom 


394  CAMERON    HALL. 

you  met  upon  the  steamer;  the  only  friend,  as  you  yourself  ac- 
knowledged, that  you  had  made  for  years." 

Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  at  his  feet  and  severed  his  chains, 
George  Cameron  could  not  have  been  more  astounded.  He  sat 
for  a  little  while  in  blank  amazement;  and  when  by  degrees  he 
began  to  comprehend  the  full  meaning  of  Uncle  John's  words,  he 
suddenly  pulled  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes  and  wept  like  a  child. 
After  awhile  he  said,  hurriedly  : 

"  Where  is  she  ?    Why  did  you  not  bring  her  with  you  ?" 

"I  thought  it  best,  George,  to  prepare  you  for  the  interview; 
and  I  am  very  glad  that  she  has  not  witnessed  this.  We,  her 
friends,  like  to  spare  her  everything  like  sorrow.  Her  life  is  dark 
enough  at  best ;  we  only  tell  her  what  will  lighten  it,  and  give 
her  as  much  sunshine  as  possible." 

"You  are  right,  sir.  And  does  she  know  who  it  is  that  she  is 
coming  to  see?" 

"She  knows  nothing,  except  that  she  is  coming  to  see*  her 
friend,  Mr.  George,  and  thinks  that  she  has  come  in  accordance 
with  your  expressed  anxiety  to  see  her  again.  I  delivered  your 
message,  and  nothing  more,  just  as  you  requested.  You  are  the 
proper  person  to  tell  her  the  rest  if  you  think  best." 

The  prisoner's  whole  frame  shook  with  emotion,  as  he  ex- 
claimed in  a  tone  that  went  to  the  heart  of  his  listener : 

"I  would  give,  oh  !  I  would  give  years  of  my  wasted  life  for 
the  blessed  privilege  of  clasping  my  daughter  to  my  heart,  and 
telling  her  that  I  am  her  erring  but  repentant  father,  of  asking 
and  receiving  from  those  childish  lips,  before  I  die,  full  and  free 
forgiveness  for  the  wrong  which  she  is  too  innocent  to  appre- 
ciate !  But  no,"  he  added,  touchingly,  "it  must  not  be — and  I 
deserve  it  all.  To  her  pure  heart  the  knowledge  that  she  had 
such  a  father,  and  that  he  had  caused  so  much  misery  to  the 
mother  whom  she  idolizes,  would  be  a  blindness  of  the  heart 
deeper  and  more  intolerable  than  that  of  her  eyes.  I  will  spare 
her.  She  shall  only  know  me  as  the  friend  of  her  brief  voyage, 
and  for  her  sake  I  will  deny  myself  the  only  comfort  that  is  left 
me  now.  It  seems  a  small  reparation  for  past  wrongs ;  but  God 
only  knows  the  sacrifice  that  it  costs." 

The  hard  and  unrelenting  man  was  at  last  overcome.  He  had 
been  inaccessible  to  the  offices  of  friendship,  and  had  received  all 
such  offers  with  a  sneer  or  with  cold  indifference.  He  had  heard, 
without  a  pang  of  remorse,  of  his  childhood's  home,  and  had  had 
no  kind  message  for  those  whom,  without  cause,  he  had  forsaken 
in  his  youth.  He  had  even  uttered  no  word  of  regret  for  the 
trusting  heart  whose  happiness  he  had  blighted,  and  had  spoken 
with  carelessness  and  levity  of  the  fearful  doom  to  which  he  was 


CAMERON     HALL.  395 

hastening;  but  callous  as  he  was  to  all  other  influences,  he  was 
at  last  broken  down  by  the  thought  of  his  little  blind  child,  and 
the  repentance  which  nothing  else  could  wring  from  him  flowed 
unbidden  at  the  recollection  of  her  wrongs. 

All  at  once  a  sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike  hira,  and  already 
half  ashamed  that  a  stranger  should  have  been  witness  to  his  un- 
usual emotion,  he  looked  up,  and  fastened  upon  Uncle  John's^ 
face  a  deep,  earnest  gaze,  as  if  he  would  read  his  heart. 

Apparently  he  was  satisfied  with  the  scrutiny,  and  said, 
thoughtfully: 

"You  are,  you  must  be  telling  the  truth,  for  your  face  speaks 
it;  and  yet  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  have  some  assurance,  some 
proof  that  she  is  indeed  my  child." 

"Will  this  satisfy  you?"  replied  Uncle  John,  placing  in  his 
hand  the  letter  that  Grace  had  given  him. 

He  opened  it,  and  recognized  in  an  instant  those  youthful  vows 
of  life-long  devotion,  all  of  which  he  had  broken.  It  was  a  mute 
but  a  powerful  reproach,  and  as  such,  it  stung  him  to  the  soul. 
He  trembled  visibly  as  he  gave  it  back,  and  said,  half  in  anger 
and  half  in  sorrow  : 

"  This  is  indeed  sufiBcient.  It  is  a  double-edged  sword  that 
she  has  used  to  avenge  herself!  Methinks  she  might  have  found 
some  other  proof  equally  convincing  and  less  keen  in  its  edge." 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  contents  of  the  letter,  George;  but 
this  much  I  know,  she  never  designed  to  inflict  unnecessary  pain. 
This  is  not  in  keeping  with  her  character.  Grace  did  not  intend 
to  torture,  but  to  convince,  and  she  gave  me  what  she  said  would 
be  sufficient  proof  if  you  should  require  it." 

"  Did  you  call  her  Grace  ?"  he  asked.  "  That  is  not  her  name. 
Her  maiden  name  was  Mary  Middleton.  But  go,  sir,"  he  added, 
impatiently,  "  we  are  wasting  time,  and.  minutes  are  precious. 
Go  and  bring  my  child  to  me." 

"Farewell,  George  Cameron,"  said  Uncle  John,  extending  his 
hand.  "I  will  not  again  intrude  upon  you  during  the  brief  time 
that  you  have  to  spend  with  Agnes.  Farewell ;  may  God  for- 
give you  and  have  mercy  upon  your  soul !" 

"  Farewell,  sir,"  he  apswered,  feelingly.  "  Thank  you  for  this 
kindness  at  the  close  of  a  life  which  has  had  but  little  ;  but,  per- 
haps, that  little  was  more  than  it  deserved!" 

He  still  held  Uncle  John's  hand,  and  there  was  a  slight  tremor 
in  his  voice,  as  he  asked : 

"Am  I  only  to  see  her  once?" 

"As  often  as  you  please." 

"  How  long  are  you  authorized  to  keep  her  here  ?" 

"  Just  as  long  as  you  want  her." 


396  CAMERON     HALL. 

"This  is  TVednesday.  To-morrow  is  Thursday,  and  then 
Friday." 

He  paused,  and  his  face  was  very  pale,  as  he  added : 

"  I  shall  not  need  her  after  to-morrow.  Let  her  spend  this 
afternoon  with  me,  and  all  day  to-morrow,  if  she  is  willing  to 
stay." 

»  "  She  will  scarcely  need  any  other  persuasion  than  the  assur- 
ance that  it  will  give  you  pleasure.  I  will  go  and  bring  her  at 
once." 

George  Cameron's  whole  frame  shook  nervously,  as  he  saw 
Uncle  John  leading  Agnes  into  his  cell.  Her  hand  was  stretched 
out  before  her,  as  it  always  was  when  she  was  in  a  strange  place, 
and  it  very  nearly  came  in  contact  with  the  irons  upon  his  wrist. 

"  Confound  these  things,"  he  muttered,  "they  will  betray  me  !" 

"Where  are  you,  Mr.  George?"  she  asked. 

He  grasped  her  hand  without  speaking,  and  pressed  a  kiss 
upon  her  lips,  so  full  of  strong,  passionate  feeling,  that  the  child 
was  astonished. 

"Agnes,"  said  Uncle  John,  "I  am  going  out  now  for  a  little 
while,  but  I  will  not  go  far  away.  Whenever  you  want  me  I  will 
come." 

"Yery  well,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered,  cheerfully.  "When 
Mr.  George  and  I  get  tired  of  each  other,  I  will  call  you.  It  will 
seem  like  being  on  the  steamer  again,  for  me  to  l3e  talking  to 
Mr.  George,  only  that  the  air  here  is  not  fresh  and  sweet  as  it  was 
on  the  ocean." 

It  was  several  minutes  before  George  Cameron  felt  that  he  was 
sufficiently  master  of  himself  to  speak.  It  completely  unmanned 
him  to  look  upon  that  childish  face,  and  to  think  of  the  double 
claim  which  her  blindness  and  helplessness  gave  her  upon  a 
father's  protecting  care  and  love.  But  while  she  had  not  found 
that  parental  care  where  she  had  a  right  to  expect  it,  it  was  still 
very  evident  that  she  had  not  felt  the  want  of  it.  There  was  none 
of  the  sadness  of  orphanage  upon  that  blind  face,  and  while  the 
thought  that  his  child  had  never  needed  him  was  full  of  bitter- 
ness, yet  there  was  a  melancholy  satisfaction  mingled  with  it, 
when  he  remembered  that  his  neglected  duty  had  not  helped  to 
darken  her  life. 

Had  Agnes  been  more  accustomed  to  his  voice,  she  would  at 
once  have  detected  the  unnatural  constraint  in  his  tone,  as  he 
said  : 

"Agnes,  it  was  very  kind  in  you  to  leave  your  mother  and 
come  so  far  to  see  a  stranger, — one,  too,  who  has  never  been 
able  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  a  child  of  your  age." 

"  I  was  willing  to  come,  Mr.  George,"  she  answered,  "  when 


CAMERON     HALL.  397 

Uncle  John  told  me  that  you  wanted  to  see  me  very  much;  but. 
I  would  a  great  deal  rather  that  you  should  have  come  to  see 
me.  I  am  happier  at  home,  with  mother,  than  I  can  be  any- 
where else,  and  I  wanted  her  to  write  and  ask  you  to  come  and 
see  me ;  but  she  told  me  that  you  could  not  come,  for  a  soldier 
cannot  leave  the  army  whenever  he  pleases.  I  don't  know  about 
your  being  agreeable  to  other  children,  but  you  always  were  to 
me;  and  you  know  that  on  the  steamer  I  liked  to  talk  to  you 
better  than  anybody  else,  except  Uncle  John." 

"  Yes,  Agnes,  you  were  always  kind  to  me,  and  I  have  thought 
many  times,  since  we  parted,  of  the  little  blind  child  who  had 
given  me  so  much  comfort." 

"And  I,  too,  have  thought  many  times  of  what  you  used  to 
tell  me  about  your  feeling  better  after  you  had  talked  to  me.  Do 
you  know,  Mr.  George,  that  you  are  the  first  person  to  whom  I 
was  ever  really  useful  ?  You  don't  know  how  ranch  I  like  to 
think  of  this.  You,  who  have  eyes,  and  can  always  be  doing 
good  to  somebody,  cannot  imagine  how  pleasant  it  is  for  a  blind 
child,  who  has  never  been  able  to  do  anything  for  others,  to  be 
told  that  she  has  been  useful  even  to  one  single  person." 

"You,  who  can  always  be  doing  good  to  somebody  !"  What 
a  reproach  to  the  unhappy  father  coming  from  the  lips  of  his  un- 
conscious child  !  He  felt  it  in  his  inmost  soul,  and  with  difficulty 
stifled  the  groan  that  struggled  to  his  lips.  He  was  thankful 
that  he  was  not  compelled  to  dissimulate  with  his  face  as  well  as 
with  voice  and  words,  as  he  answered  : 

"  Perhaps,  Agnes,  you  underrate  your  usefulness.  I  doubt  not 
but  you  have  done  quite  as  much  to  promote  the  happiness  of 
your  friends  as  other  children  have,  who  can  see.  What,  for  in- 
stance, would  your — your  mother  and  Uncle  John  do  without 
you?" 

"  They  would  be  very  lonely,  sir,  and  would  miss  me  very 
much ;  but  only  because  I  occupy  so  much  of  their  time  and 
thoughts ;  not  because  I  have  ever  been  useful  to  them." 

"Agnes,"  said  the  prisoner,  abruptly,  his  face  working  convul- 
sively, "your — your  mother,  is  she  happy?" 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  my  mother  is  happy.  She  is 
good,  and  good  people  are  always  happy." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  my  child.  I  have  known  some  very 
good  people  who  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  make  them 
sad. " 

"And  so  my  mother  has  often  told  me  that  she  has  had.  They 
say,  too,  that  she  always  looks  sad ;  but  may  not  sad  people  be 
happy  ?" 

"No,  Agnes,  it  seems  to  me  a  contradiction  in  terms." 

34 


398  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Perhaps  so,  sir;  I  don't  know  much  about  such  things;  but  I 
thought  that  people  were  sad  when  God  afflicted  them,  and  un- 
happy when  they  did  wrong.  Xow,  my  mother  is  a  Christian. 
She  always  tries  to  do  right,  and  so  she  cannot  be  unhappy, 
although  she  may  sometimes  be  sad." 

"  You  are  a  singular  child.  Who  taught  you  such  no- 
tions ?" 

"  Nobody  taught  me,  but  I  must  have  learned  them  from 
mother  and  Uncle  John,  Mr.  Derby  and  Mr.  Cameron,  Miss 
Julia  and  Eva,  for  they  are  my  only  companions." 

"  Miss  Julia,  Miss  Eva  1"  he  repeated,  thoughtfully.  "Agnes, 
do  you  love  these  ladies  very  much  ?  You  mention  them  very 
often." 

"Do  I  love  them?"  she  repeated,  in  surprise.  "What  a 
question  !  But  I  forgot,  you  don't  know  them,  Mr.  George.  If 
you  did,  you  never  would  have  asked  it.  Indeed,  I  do  love  them 
very  dearly,  and  I  should  be  a  most  ungrateful  child  if  I  did 
not." 

"  They  are  kind  to  you,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  just  as  kind  and  affectionate  as  if  they  were  my  own 
sisters." 

"  Is  Eva  pretty  ?     But  I  forgot,  you  cannot  see." 

"  Yes,  sir,  mother  says  that  she  is  very  pretty,  and  I  am  sure 
that  she  must  be,  for  she  has  such  a  bright,  glad  voice,  and  such 
a  ringing  laugh,  and  long,  thick  curls.  Yes,  we  all  think  that 
Eva,  is  beautiful,  and  somebody  else  does,  too,  and  that  is  Mr. 
Willie." 

"And  who  is  he,  Agnes  ?" 

"A  young  soldier,  who  was  wounded  at  Manassas,  and  brought 
to  the  hospital  in  Hopedale ;  and  when  he  was  well  enough  to 
be  moved,  they  took  him  out  to  the  Hall,  where  Miss  Julia 
nursed  him  for  months;  and  now  he  is  nearly  well,  and  he  and 
Eva  are  going  to  be  married." 

"What !"  he  exclaimed,  in  his  surprise  thrown  completely  oflf 
his  guard.      "  Going  to  be  married  !     When  I  last " 

He  suddenly  checked  himself,  and  forced  himself  to  ask, 
quietly : 

"  How  old  is  she  ?     Is  she  not  very  young  to  be  married  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  She  is  seventeen,  and  she  must  be  old 
enough,  or  her  father  would  not  have  consented.  And,  besides, 
they  are  not  going  to  be  married  now.  Mr.  Cameron  wants 
them  to  wait  until  the  war  is  over,  but  Uncle  John  does  not 
think  that  they  will  be  able  to  do  it." 

The  child's  words  were  altosether  unheeded  by  her  companion, 
for  memory  was  busy  picturing,  with  all  the  vividness  of  present 


CAMERON    HALL.^  399 

reality,  that  last  scene  at  home  so  many  years  ago.  How  well  he 
remembered  the  little  group  under  the  oak-tree  ;  how  plainly  he 
saw  the  curly-headed  Eva,  half  amazed  and  half  terrified,  the 
enraged  Walter  holding  in  one  hand  his  dandelion  curl,  and 
doubling  up  his  other  fist  ready  for  the  expected  combat;  and 
last  of  all,  the  indignant  little  Julia  standing  as  a  shield  between 
him  and  his  victim  !  And  that  well-remembered  willow  twig ; 
ah  I  its  memory  lashed  him  now  with  a  keener  sting  than  it  had 
then  inflicted  on  that  childish  face,  and  the  bright-red  mark 
across  her  cheek  was  as  painfully  vivid  as  when  she  had  stood 
before  him,  quivering  with  mingled  pain  and  anger. 

Agnes  waited  long  for  a  reply,  and  then  said  : 

"Are  you  thinking,  Mr.  George  ?" 

"Yes,  my  daughter,"  he  answered,  sadly.  "I  was  thinking — 
thinking." 

She  instantly  detected  the  alteration  in  his  tone,  and  asked  : 

"Are  you  sad,  Mr.  George?" 
.  He  thought  that,  according  to  her  definition  of  terms,  he  might 
oe  called  not  sad,  but  unhappy;   and  perceiving  that  he  must 
guard  his  tone  as  well  as  his  words,  and  determined  not  to  be- 
tray himself,  he  replied,  with  an  attempt  at  cheerfulness : 

"No,  indeed,  Agnes,  not  sad  to-day.  I  have  too  good  com- 
pany for  that." 

"  Mr.  George,"  she  said,  "  I  was  so  glad  when  Uncle  John 
told  me  that  you  were  a  soldier." 

"  Why  so,  child  ?" 

"  For  several  reasons.  You  told  me  when  I  first  knew  you 
that  you  had  no  friends  and  nothing  to  do.  Now  in  the  army 
you  will  have  both,  and  what  is  better  still,  you  will  be  happy  in 
doing  your  duty  to  your  country,  by  fighting  and  helping  to  drive 
away  these  miserable  Yankees." 

The  father  became  restless.  He  did  not  like  the  subject,  but 
was  afraid  to  excite  her  suspicion  by  seeming  to  avoid  it,  and  he 
replied,  in  a  careless,  indifi"erent  tone : 

"  Why,  Agnes,  don't  you  like  the  Yankees  ?" 

In  other  circumstances  he  would  have  been  amused  at  the  ex- 
pression of  blank  amazement  upon  her  face,  and  he  listened  with- 
out surprise,  as  she  answered,  coldly : 

"Now,  Mr.  George,  if  I  did  not  know  that  you  wanted  to 
tease  me  as  Uncle  John  does  sometimes,  I  would  get  right  up 
and  go  away,  and  would  not  say  another  word  to  you ;  but  of 
course  you  cannot  love  the  Yankees  any  better  than  I  do,  or  you 
would  not  be  fighting  against  them.  Now,  if  you  knew  my 
friends  in  Hopedale,  and  loved  them  as  I  do,  you  would  fight 
all  the  harder  in  the  next  battle,  for  what  they  did  to  them." 


400  'cAMERON    HALL. 

"  What  did  they  do  ?" 

"  They  actually  burned  up  Mr.  Cameron's  barns  full  of  grain, 
and  all  his  meat,  and  stole  all  his  horses  and  mules,  except  a  few 
old  useless  ones,  so  that  he  cannot  make  another  crop  next  year, 
and  does  not  know  where  he  is  to  get  food  for  his  servants 
now." 

Her  listener  grew  more  and  more  disturbed.  He  dared  not 
stop  the  child,  but  he  did  not  answer,  hoping  that  she  would 
soon  grow  weary  of  the  subject ;  but  she  was  evidently  excited, 
and  talked  rapidly  and  with  far  more  bitterness  of  feeling  than 
he  had  ever  seen  her  show  before.  Little  dreaming  that  the  sub- 
ject could  be  objectionable  to  a  Confederate  soldier,  as  she  sup- 
posed him  to  be,  she  went  on : 

"  When  they  first  arrived  at  the  Hall,  Mr.  Cameron  was  not 
there.  Miss  Julia  and  Eva,  two  unprotected  young  ladies,  were 
the  only  persons  at  home,  and  yet  these  soldiers,  with  a  lieutenant 
at  their  head,  searched  the  house  from  top  to  bottom.  They 
even  went  in  the  ladies'  bureau-drawers,  and  Eva's  writing- 
desk,  and  the  oflQcer  read  Willie's  letters  to  her  before  her  eyes. 
He  pretended  that  he  was  searching  for  a  Confederate  soldier; 
but  when  he  found  the  silver  spoons  and  forks,  he  showed  what 
he  really  came  for,  by  putting  them  into  his  pocket.  What  do 
you  think  of  that,  Mr.  George  ?  What  do  you  think  of  a  soldier, 
an  officer,  stealing  silver  spoons  ?" 

He  did  not  reply,  and  presently  she  compelled  an  answer,  by 
repeating  her  question. 

"  Say,  Mr.  George,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"I  think,  Agnes,  that  the  whole  proceeding  was  a  villainous 
one ;  but  do  you  think  that  it  is  fair  to  judge  a  whole  army  by 
two  or  three  soldiers,  or  all  its  officers  by  one  ?  Perhaps  in 
your — in  the  Confederate  army  some  might  be  found  no  better 
than  these." 

"  Now,  Mr.  George !"  she  exclaimed,  half  angrily,  "  are  you 
going  to  put  our  soldiers  and  our  officers  on  a  level  with  such 
people  as  these?  You  are  not  talking  pleasantly,  now,"  she 
added,  with  the  candor  which,  in  consideration  of  her  infirmity, 
she  had  always  been  privileged  to  use.  "  I  don't  like  to  hear 
you  talk  so  at  all." 

"Well,  my  child,"  he  answered,  "it  will  surely  not  be  difficult 
to  find  more  pleasant  things  to  talk  about.  The  subject,  Agnes, 
was  not  of  my  choosing;  it  was  yours." 

"  It  is  not  the  subject,  Mr.  George,  that  I  find  fault  with  ;  it  is 
the  way  that  you  talk  about  it.  Of  course  you  do  not  mean  it; 
but  it  sounds  like  excusing  them.  Ni)w,  if  you  were  a  Yankee, 
you  might  say  so,  for  nobody  would  expect  you  to  be  any  better 


CAMERON    HALL.  401 

than  the  rest  of  them ;  but  you  are  no  Yankee.     Didn't  you  tell 
me  on  the  steamer  that  you  belong  to  my  State,  Yirginia?" 

"Yes,  I  am  a  Yirginian." 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  very  decidedly,  "you  ought  to  be  the 
last  man  in  the  world  to  say  anything  that  sounds  like  excusing 
the  Yankees  for  what  they  have  done  and  are  now  doing  in  your 
own  State, —  burning  property,  stealing  cattle,  and  destroying 
railroads." 

"Agnes,"  he  said,  amused  even  in  the  midst  of  his  depression 
and  gloom,  "you  are  the  most  incorrigible  little  rebel  that  I  ever 
saw. " 

"  I  don't  like  to  be  called  a  rebel,  Mr.  George.  It  is  a  Yankee 
name." 

"  Do  you  like  Secesh  better?" 

"No,  I  abhor  that;  for  they  call  us  that  to  show  their  con- 
tempt for  us.  I  like  to  be  called  a  Southerner,  which  is  just 
what  I  am." 

"  Somebody  has  indoctrinated  you  thoroughly,  Agnes.  Who 
is  it, — your  mother  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mr.  George  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  somebody  has  made  you  a  fierce,  hot  Southerner^ 
Who  did  it  ?" 

"  God,"  she  answered,  reverently.  "  He  had  me  born  in  the 
South,  and  I  can  no  more  help  loving  my  country,  and  getting 
angry  when  I  see  it  ruined  and  desolated,  than  I  could  help 
loving  my  mother,  and  getting  angry  if  I  saw  her  tormented  and 
abused." 

Every  word  that  the  child  uttered  was  a  home-thrust,  which 
pierced  only  the  deeper  because  she  did  it  so  unconsciously. 
The  father  felt  them  all,  and  yet  he  could  not  resist  an  unac- 
countable temptation  to  draw  out  her  feelings  to  the  utmost 
extent ;  and  so  he  said  : 

"Agnes,  if  such  are  your  feelings  toward  a  real  Yankee,  who 
invades  your  Southern  country,  what  would  they  be  toward  a 
Southern  Yankee." 

"  What  is  that,  Mr.  George  ?    I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"  It  is  a  man  who  is  a  Southerner  by  birth,  but  a  Yankee  in 
feeling;  who  either  joins  the  Yankee  army,  or  believes  that  it  is 
right  in  desolating  and  ruining  the  Southern  country." 

"A  man  to  join  an  army  for  invading  and  desolating  his  own 
country,  or  believe  that  such  a  thing  is  right!"  she  exclaimed, 
with  horror  and  amazement.  "  Oh,  Mr.  George,  I  don't  believe 
that  such  a  villain  as  that  is  in  the  world !" 

"  Oh,  Agnes  !"  he  exclaimed,  involuntarily,  "  don't  say  that." 

"Yes  I  will  I"  she  replied,  in  a  most  excited  manner.     "I 

34* 


402  CAMERON    HALL.  • 

don't  believe  that  anybody  who  had  a  man's  heart  could  be  wicked 
enou<^h  for  that  1" 

"What  would  you  do,  Agnes,  if  you  were  to  meet  such  a 
person?" 

"Loathe  and  scorn  him!"  she  answered,  "and  keep  far  from 
him,  as  I  would  from  a  viper !" 

Her  whole  face  expressed  unutterable  loathing,  and  even  her 
sightless  eyes  seemed  to  flash  with  indignation.  Involuntarily 
her  listener  tried  to  shrink  away,  as  if  he  felt  the  glance  of  her 
burning  scorn;  but  presently  he  remembered,  with  a  feeling  of 
relief,  that  she  could  not  see  the  object  of  her  contempt,  and  he 
murmured,  inaudibly : 

"  Better  as  it  is !  Ignorance  is  bliss  for  you,  my  child.  I 
would  not  plant  such  a  sting  in  your  young  heart,  even  for  a 
thousandfold  greater  pleasure  than  it  would  give  me  now  to  tell 
you  all  I     No  ;  you  shall  know  me  only  as  your  friend  1" 

"  What  did  you  say,  Mr.  George  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  did  not 
hear  you." 

"  Nothing,  my  child,  nothing.  Now  tell  me  something  about 
your  home  and  your  mother." 

Frankly  and  unsuspiciously  she  told  him  of  her  mother,  and 
3isclosed  many  things  in  her  past  and  present  history  which 
caused  a  pang,  and  wrung  forth  a  sigh  from  her  listener.  It 
was  almost  dark  when  Uncle  John  came  to  say  that  it  was  time 
to  go. 

"You  will  come  back  to-morrow,  Agnes,  and  see  me?"  the 
father  said. 

"  Why  cannot  you  come  to  see  me  ?"  she  asked.  "  Our  rooms 
at  the  hotel  are  pleasanter  than  yours.  It  is  damp  and  close 
here." 

"I  cannot  come  to  you,  Agnes.  Don't  you  know  that  your 
mother  told  you  a  soldier  could  not  leave  his  post  and  go  away 
whenever  he  pleased  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  but  you  cannot  be  very  busy,  or  you  would  not 
have  had  time  to  talk  so  long  to  me  now." 

"  No,  I  am  not  very  busy,  but  a  soldier  is  obliged  to  obey 
orders,  and  ask  no  questions.  I  have  been  ordered  to  stay  here, 
and  I  must  do  so,  no  matter  how  much  I  would  like  to  take  a 
walk  or  pay  a  visit." 

"  Well,  Mr.  George,  if  that  is  the  case,  I  will  come  to  see  you 
again  to-morrow  morning,  if  Uncle  John  will  bring  me." 

It  required  all  the  prisoner's  dexterity  and  watchfulness  to 
prevent  the  clanking  of  his  chains,  and  to  keep  his  fettered  hands 
from  coming  in  contact  with  hers,  as  he  clasped  her  in  a  tight 
embrace. 


CAMERON    HALL.  403 

On  their  return  to  the  hotel,  she  asked: 

"When  are  you  going  home,  Uncle  John?" 

"Day  after  to-morrow  morning,  Agnes." 

"Will  your  business  all  be  finished  then?" 

"Yes;  and  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  get  home  again.  Won't 
you?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  love  home  better  than  any  other  place, —  Paris, 
or  Richmond,  or  any  place," 

The  next  day  she  spent  with  the  prisoner.  Their  conversation 
was  almost  exclusively  about  the  families  at  the  cottage  and  the 
Hall,  and  sometimes  be  felt  a  longing  desire  to  send  some  mes- 
sage to  both  households;  bat  this  would  involve  a  betrayal  of 
himself  to  Agnes,  and  besides,  there  was  still  a  lurking  bitterness 
in  his  heart,  which  made  all  such  feelings  only  momentary.  There 
was  but  one  soft  spot  there,  and  that  Agnes  had  found  and  wholly 
appropriated.  To  wife,  and  father,  and  sisters  he  was  still  per- 
fectly indifferent. 

As  the  day  began  to  wane,  the  last  day  of  his  earthly  life,  he 
became  so  oppressed  and  dejected  that  it  required  a  great  effort 
to  talk  at  all,  and  sometimes  there  was  a  pause  of  several  minutes 
in  the  conversation.     After  one  of  these,  he  said,  sadly : 

"Agnes,  you  are  going  away  to-morrow,  and  I  do  not  feel  as  if 
I  would  ever  see  you  again." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  George,  you  must  not  say  that.  Some  time  you 
must  get  a  furlough,  and  come  to  Hopedale  to  see  me,  and  then 
you  shall  know  and  learn  to  love  my  mother,  and  the  family  at 
the  Hall,  and  shall  never  say  again  that  you  have  no  friends. 
You  must  promise  to  come ;  will  you  ?" 

"Yes,  if  it  should  ever  be  possible." 

"  But  why  may  it  not  be  possible  ?" 

"  You  know,  Agnes,  that  a  soldier's  life  is  very  uncertain. 
Mine  may  not  be  a  long  one." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  so ;  but  that  is  not  certain,  and  a  soldier  ought 
not  to  expect  to  be  killed.  He  ought  to  do  his  duty,  and  hope 
that  God  will  spare  him  to  do  something  great  for  his  country. 
That  is  what  mother  told  Mr.  Walter  when  he  went  away." 

The  prisoner's  answer  was  a  sigh,  which  almost  amounted  to  a 
groan.     After  a  little  while,  he  said : 

"You  will  promise,  my  child,  not  to  forget  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  will  promise  never  to  forget  you,  and  always  to 
love  you  too." 

"Thank  you,  my  darling,  thank  you !"  he  answered  with  grateful 
earnestness. 

"And  will  you  promise,  Mr.  George,  to  come  to  Hopedale  ?" 

"Yes,  if  lean." 


404  CAMERON    HALL. 

"And  if  I  write  to  you,  or  rather  if  I  get  mother  to  do  it  for 
me,  will  you  answer  the  letter  ?''  ^ 

"  Yes,  Agnes,  if  I  should  ever  receive  it." 

The  child  was  gone.  He  had  strained  her  passionately  to  his 
heart,  in  a  last  embrace,  aud  had  sent  her  away  forever  from  her 
father's  presence  as  from  the  presence  of  a  stranger.  He  listened 
to  her  retreating  footsteps,  and  when  they  were  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  wretched  man  sank  upon  the  floor  and  sobbed  like  a 
child. 

The  next  morning  Uncle  John  went  again  to  the  prison.  He 
did  not  go  in,  but  simply  inquired  of  the  guard  if  the  execution 
was  over. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  answered,  "it  took  piace  at  nine  o'clock." 

At  eleven  he  and  Agnes  were  in  the  cars,  on  their  way  to 
Hopedale. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

The  morning  after  Uncle  John  and  Agnes  had  gone  to  Rich- 
mond, Grace  walked  out  to  the  Hall.  The  walk  was  too  long 
for  her  at  any  time,  and  she  had  never  undertaken  it  but  once 
before,  and  then  under  strong  excitement.  Julia  saw  her  as  she 
entered  the  gate,  and  immediately  conjecturing  that  something 
was  wrong,  she  hastened  to  meet  her  half  way  down  the  lawn. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Grace  ?"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  saw  her 
haggard  face  and  flagging  steps. 

She  replied  by  asking : 

"  Is  your  father  at  home,  Julia?     I  must  see  him  alone." 

When  they  reached  the  house,  her  strength  gave  way,  and  she 
sank  exhausted  upon  the  steps.  Julia  was  now  both  alarmed 
and  distressed.  She  saw  that  something  very  unusual  was  the 
matter,  for  she  knew  Grace  well  enough  to  be  assured  that  only 
an  intolerable  trouble  could  thus  overcome«her. 

"You  are  sick  and  in  trouble,"  she  said,  anxiously.  "What 
must  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"Only  take  me  to  your  father,  Julia." 

Julia  half  led,  half  supported  her  to  the  library,  where  her 
father  was  alone. 

Mr.  Cameron  saw  at  once  that  she  was  greatly  agitated,  and 
there  was  even  more  of  kindness  and  gentleness  than  usual  in  his 
greeting.     They  sat  several  minutes  in  silence,  he  waiting  for  her 


CAMERON    HALL.  405 


0 


to  speak,  and  she  trying  to  nerve  herself  to  do  it.  At  last,  in  a 
few  words,  she  told  him  the  mystery  of  her  life,  and  gave  him 
convincing  proof  that  the  unknown  stranger,  whom  the  kindness 
of  years  had  made  his  friend,  was  none  other  than  his  dau2:hter- 
in-law,  and  the  blind  child,  who  had  been  scarcely  less  to  him 
than  a  daughter,  was  indeed  his  own  grandchild. 

Mr.  Cameron  was  astounded.  She  had  finished  her  stDry  sev- 
eral minutes  before  he  replied  at  all,  and  then  he  said,  in  a  tone 
of  mingled  kindness  and  reproach : 

"And  why,  my  daughter,  have  you  waited  all  these  years  to  tell 
me  this  ?  Why  have  you  toiled  and  struggled  to  support  yourself 
and  your  helpless  child  in  the  very  sight  of  a  comfortable  home, 
where  there  was  room  enough  and  love  enough  for  you  and  her? 
Why  have  you  denied  me  the  opportunity  of  doing  my  duty  to 
you  both  ?  And  if  you  had  determined  that  you  and  she  should 
live  independent  of  the  care  and  affection  of  the  Cameron  family, 
why  did  you  seek  their  home  for  your  own  ?" 

"I  came  to  Hopedale,  sir,  for  two  reasons.  One  was  to  bring 
my  child  within  reach  of  your  protecting  care  if  she  should  ever 
need  it.  I  never  intended  to  ask  aid  from  any  one  so  long  as  I 
had  health  and  strength  to  provide  for  her  myself,  but  I  had  no 
right  to  leave  her  helpless  and  friendless,  and  I  always  purposed 
to  reveal  myself  to  you  in  case  that  I  should  be  about  to  die. 
My  other  reason  for  coming  here  was  because  I  felt  assured  that 
here,  under  the  very  wing  of  the  home  which  he  had  left  in  his 
youth,  and  against  which,  for  some  unknown  reason,  he  was  so 
embittered,  I  would  be  secure  against  discovery  if  my  husband 
should  ever  attempt  to  find  me." 

"Were  your  feelings  so  bitter  toward  him,  Grace  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Cameron. 

"  I  felt,  sir,  that  I  never  wanted  to  see  him  more.  My  love 
was  strong,  as  strong  and  trusting  as  ever  woman  bestowed  upon 
a  husband;  but,  Mr.  Cameron,  even  such  love  as  mine  can  wither 
and  die.  When  I  first  sought  refuge  in  Hopedale,  it  was  under 
strong  excitement.  I  had  not  ceased  to  love  my  husband  then. 
No,  I  loved  him  devotedly,  passionately,  even  then;  but,  stung 
with  a  sense  of  injustice  and  wrong,  and  burning  with  indigna- 
tion at  receiving  neglect  and  desertion  where  I  had  a  right  to  ex- 
pect love  and  protection,  my  chief  anxiety  was  to  disappoint  him 
if  he  should  ever  try  to  find  me  again.  My  love  died  out  years 
ago.  Now  I  am  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  his  degradation,  but 
it  is  more  on  Agnes's  account  than  on  my  own  ;  it  is  rather  be- 
cause he  is  her  father  than  because  he  is  my  husband." 

"  But,  Grace,  since  you  have  thought  it  best  to  keep  your  secret 
for  years,  why  have  you  revealed  it  now  ?" 


406  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Because  the  reasons  for  secrecy  no  longer  exist.  I  will  never 
be  sought  now,  and  I  have  shown  myself  capable  of  taking  care 
of  myself  and  Agnes,  and  that  I  require  nothing  at  your  hands. 
On  the  contrary,  it  may  be  that,  as  daughter  and  sister,  I  can  do 
something  for  you  in  our  common  calamity.  "When  you  were 
prosperous  and  happy,  I  cared  not  to  cast  a  shadow  upon  you  by 
revealiri^  myself  as  the  deserted  wife  of  your  erring  son.  All  my 
own  individual  grief  I  have  kept  to  myself,  but  this  is  a  common 
grief,  brought  alike  upon  you  and  me  by  him,  and  as  his  wife  it 
is  both  my  duty  and  my  right  to  share  it  with  you,  his  father  and 
sisters.  If  I  can  do  no  more,  I  can,  at  least,  feel  and  suffer  with 
you." 

"  I  respect  your  motive,  my  daughter,"  replied  Mr.  Cameron, 
"but  at  the  same  time  I  must  condemn  your  action.  You  have 
wronged  both  yourself  and  us :  yourself,  by  being  shut  out  from 
the  protection  and  love  of  those  upon  whom,  from  your  peculiar 
circumstances,  you  had  even  more  than  a  daughter's  claim ;  and 
us,  by  keeping  us  in  ignorance  of  a  duty  which,  had  we  known  it, 
we  would  most  gladly  have  fulfilled.  My  poor  daughter,"  he 
added,  looking  compassionately  at  her,  "how  you  must  have  suf- 
fered all  these  years,  bearing  your  burden  silently,  and  without 
sympathy !" 

"That  has  added  no  little  to  its  weight,  sir,"  she  replied. 
"After  I  learned  to  know  you  well,  and  especially  since  Julia  has 
grown  up  with  a  heart  so  full  of  sympathy,  I  have  often  longed 
for  the  comfort  of  a  full  confession,  and  the  restraint  that  I  im- 
posed upon  myself  was  only  another  element  in  my  cup  of  sor- 
row. I  could  have  borne  it  better  elsewhere,  but  for  my  child's 
sake  it  was  better  to  remain  here,  and  so  I  did.  I  have  kept  my 
secret,  Mr.  Cameron,  but  it  has  cost  a  continual  effort  to  do  it." 

"  Indeed,  my  daughter,  you  have  kept  it  well,  too  well  for  your 
comfort  and  for  my  duty;  but  silence  and  mystery  are  ended  now. 
The  forsaken  wife  of  that  unfortunate  boy,  who  began  his  career 
in  disobedience  and  is  about  to  end  it  in  dishonor,  shall  find  a 
father  in  the  parent  whom  he  abandoned,  and  a  home  beneath  the 
roof  which  he  deserted.  Hereafter,  Grace,  you  and  Agnes  shall 
find  a  home  in  your  father's  house,  and  be  sheltered  by  his  love 
and  care." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  answered : 

"No,  sir,  that  cannot  be." 

"How  now  ?"  he  exclaimed,  almost  angrily.  "Am  I  still  to  be 
denied  the  privilege  from  which  I  have  been  so  long  shut  out  ?" 

"Agnes  must  never  know,"  she  replied,  "  what  1  have  now  told 
you." 

"Now  this  passes  comprehension,"  he  said, impatiently.     "One 


CAMERON    HALL.  '       407 

would  think  that  the  child  had  lived  long  enough  near  her  grand- 
father without  knowing  it." 

"I  cannot  consent,"  she  answered,  quietly,  "that  my  child 
should. first  know  her  father  as  a  criminal." 

"  She  need  never  know  that.  We  can  only  tell  her  that  her 
father  is  my  son,  and  that  he  is  dead." 

"  That,  sir,  will  be  impossible.  George's  unhappy  end  is  no 
•secret.  If  I  could  I  would  still  keep  her  in  ignorance  of  his  name 
and  existence,  but  this  I  cannot  hope  to  do.  Newspapers  will 
herald  his  crime  and  his  fate  through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  land,  and  somebody  will  be  sure  to  tell  her.  She  will  be  suf- 
ficiently grieved  for  the  sake  of  her  friends  at  the  Hall,  she  must 
not  be  grieved  too  on  her  own  account.  Believe  me,  sir,  it  is 
better,  far  better,  that  when  Agnes  hears  the  name  of  George 
Cameron,  it  should  fall  upon  her  ears  as  that  of  a  stranger,  with 
whom  she  has  no  further  concern  than  to  sympathize  with  the 
trouble  and  sorrow  that  he  has  brought  upon  you." 

"But  would  it  not  be  something  of  a  compensation  for  this 
knowledge  to  find  that  those  whom  she  has  been  accustomed  to 
regard  as  friends  are  something  more  ?  that  she  is  bound  to  them 
by  the  ties  of  blood,  and  has  the  strong  claim  of  relationship 
upon  them  ?" 

"Agnes  is  nothing  but  a  simple  child,  Mr.  Cameron,  and  knows 
and  cares  little  for  ties  of  blood.  Years  of  affectionate  kindness 
have  bound  her  to  you  by  a  love  that  no  relationship  could  in- 
crease, and  she  could  neither  love  you  better  herself,  nor  expect 
more  affection  from  you,  if  you  were  a  thousand  times  her  grand- 
father." 

"You  may  be  right,  Grace,"  he  answered,  doubtfully.  "God 
knows  that  I  would  not  do  anything  to  make  her  unhappy,  and 
yet  it  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  be  able,  without  restraint, 
to  lavish  my  affection  upon  her.  I  would  like  to  compensate  her 
now  for  all  these  lost  years." 

"You  need  not  restrain  your  affection,  sir.  Lavish  it  upon 
her  as  fully  and  as  freely  as  you  will,  it  will  not  surprise  her,  for 
she  has  long  been  accustomed  to  it.  Indeed,  I  think  you  will 
find  it  difficult  to  be  kinder  or  more  affectionate  to  her  than  you 
have  been  for  years." 

"  Then,  Grace,  if  I  understand  it,  we  must  rejoice  quietly  in 
our  new-found  ties.     The  world  must  know  nothing  of  them." 

"Yes,  sir,  for  the  present,  at  least,  for  Agnes's  sake.  Mr.  Der- 
by and  Uncle  John  already  know  it.  Mr.  Derby  has  known  it 
ever  since  I  first  came  to  Hopedale,  and  I  told  Uncle  John  night 
before  last,  when  I  asked  him  to  take  Agnes  to  see  her  father." 

"Has  she  gone?"  he  inquired,  in  surprise. 


408  CAMERON    HALL. 

"Yes,  sir.  They  left  yesterday  afternoon.  Her  father  proves 
to  be  not  altogether  a  stranger.  He  is  the  friend  whose  acquaint- 
ance she  made  on  the  steamer,  and  whom  she  only  knows  as  Mr. 
George.  As  ignorant  as  herself,  he  sent  a  kind  message  to  her, 
and  expressed  a  wish  to  see  her,  a  wish  which,  under  the  circum- 
stances, I  felt  that  I  had  no  right  to  disregard.  I  feel  some  anx- 
iety lest  he  may  reveal  himself  to  her,  but  I  expn^ssed  no  wish 
upon  the  subject.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  be  willing,  if  ib  will  com-* 
fort  him ;  but  knowing  the  child  as  I  do,  I  cannot  help  wishing  to 
spare  her  the  pain  which  this  knowledge  would  certainly  iniiict. 
As  to  ourselves,  let  us  continue  outwardly  our  same  relation  as 
friends.  The  world  has  nothing  to  do  with  our  ties  and  our  inner 
life.  As  to  happiness,  there  is,  I  su-^pect,  as  little  in  the  future 
for  you  as  there  is  for  me,  for  such  a  blow  will  leave  in  your  heart 
but  little  capacity  for  it,  and  I  myself  bade  farewell  to  it  years 
ago.  But  we  can  be  as  father  and  daughter  to  each  other — a 
mutual  comfort  and  solace." 

"  I  cannot  but  acquiesce  in  your  wishesi,  my  daughter,  however 
much  I  may  doubt  their  expediency.  One  thing,  however,  I  shall 
insist  upon.  I  have  consented  to  your  terms,  you  must  now 
agree  to  mine.  If  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  we  are  to  be  nothing 
more  than  friends,  in  reality  it  must  be  far  otherwise.  I  will  not 
be  satisfied  merely  with  the  name  of  father ;  you  must  allow  me 
to  act  a  father's  part.  Even  while  ignorant  of  our  relationship, 
your  conduct  in  this  particular  has  always  been  unaccountable  to 
me.  You  have  uniformly  and  consistently  rejected  from  me 
kindness  which  you  were  willing  to  receive  from  others  upon  whom 
you  had  no  stronger  claim." 

"  But  you  understand  it  now,  Mr.  Cameron.  So  long  as  I 
kept  my  secret  from  you  I  resolved  to  be  independent  of  you. 
Hereafter  I  shall  not  only  desire  but  I  shall  expect  to  be  treated 
as  a  daughter." 

The  sisters,  equally  surprised  at  Grace's  t'idings,  received  them 
with  characteristic  difference  of  opinion.  Eva  was  bitterly  op- 
posed to  having  Agnes  kept  in  ignorance.  She  was  satisfied 
that  the  child,  if  she  knew  all,  would  love  her  much  better  than 
she  could  possibly  do  now;  and  as  to  herself,  she  was  very  sure 
that  her  intercourse  with  Agnes  would  hereafter  always  be  re- 
strained for  fear  of  betraying  what  she  was  told  to  conceal.  But 
Grace  quietly  overruled  these  objections,  as  she  had  done  those 
of  her  father.  Julia,  on  the  contrary,  coincided  entirely  with  the 
mother,  whose  views  struck  an  answering  chord  in  her  own  feel- 
ings. She  well  knew  what  Grace  meant,  by  the  sting  which 
would  be  thus  planted  in  the  chi'd's  heart,  and  she  agreed  with 
her  that  it  would  be  an  unnecessary  infliction.     This  disclosure 


CAMERON     HALL.  409 

revealed  to  her,  as  it  had  done  to  her  father,  much  that  had  here- 
tofore been  inexplicable  in  Grace's  conduct ;  for  while  she  had 
evidently  been  for  years  warmly  attached  to  them,  and  was  always 
ready  to  perform  for  them  the  offices  of  friendship,  there  had  been 
a  quiet  but  a  very  decided  way  of  rejecting  all  favors  from  either 
her  father  or  herself,  that  had  both  surprised  and  annoyed  her. 
And  yet,  at  the  same  time  that  she  had  thus  rejected  them  for 
herself,  she  had,  with  seeming  inconsistency,  not  only  allowed, 
but  even  encouraged  Agues  to  receive  from  them  any  kindness 
whatever.  Now  Julia  understood  it  all.  She  could  appreciate 
the  feeling  which  made  the  mother  shrink  from  being  herself 
under  obligations,  while  she  permitted  her  daughter  to  receive 
what,  as  his  child,  she  had  a  right  to  demand.  She,  as  well  as 
Grace,  regretted  that  the  veil  of  mystery  must  still  be  thrown 
over  their  connection.  They  would  have  preferred  at  once  to 
have  made  it  known,  but  for  Agnes's  sake  they  were  willing  to 
make  the  sacrifice. 

When  she  and  Uncle  John  returned,  they  found  things  going 
on  in  their  usual  calm  routine  at  the  Hall  and  the  cottage ;  and 
if  there  was  a  little  more  warmth,  a  little  more  tenderness  with 
which  the  grandfather  pressed  to  his  heart  the  blind  child  of  his 
erring  son,  she  did  not  know  it,  for  she  could  not  see  the  tears 
that  he  hastily  brushed  away,  and,  as  her  mother  had  foretold, 
she  had  been  too  long  accustomed  to  his  affection  to  be  surprised 
at  it  now. 

As  Uncle  John  lifted  her  out  of  the  buggy  at  her  mother's 
door,  he  whispered : 

"  You  must  not  tell  your  mother  about  the  child-angel,  Agnes. 
That  is  a  secret  between  you  and  me,  and  nobody  must  tell  her 
that  except  myself" 

"Oh  no,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered,  "I  won't  say  one  word 
about  it !" 

But,  childlike,  and  bursting  with  the  importance  of  keeping  a 
secret,  she  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  she  met  her  mother  : 

"  I  have  had  a  pleasant  visit,  mother,  and  Uncle  John  and  I  know 
a  great  secret,  and  you  will  be  so  glad  to  know  it  some  of  these 
days  ;  but  we  cannot  tell  you  yet,  can  we,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"  No,  Agnes,  I  rely  upon  you  to  keep  it.  If  you  mention  it 
before  I  give  you  permission,  I  will  never  tell  you  another." 

"Come  to-night,  Uncle  John,"  said  Grace,  "and  I  will  tell 
you  all.     You  deserve  this  proof  of  friendship  at  my  hands." 

That  night,  when  Agnes  was  dreaming  pleasantly  about  Uncle 
John,  his  child-angel,  and  Mr.  George,  her  mother  was  quietly 
and  painfully  unfolding  the  records  of  a  life  of  sorrow.  He 
listened  attentively,  and  when  she  had  finished  he  said  : 

35 


410  CAMERON     HALL. 

"You  have  indeed  suffered  much,  Grace ;  but  the  worst  is  over 
now.  The  rest  of  your  life  may  be  at  least  quiet  and  peaceful, 
though  it  cannot  be  happy." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  know  well  that  the  worst  is  over 
now.  You  may  not  have  felt  it,  Uncle  John,"  she  said,  with  sad 
earnestness,  "  but  I  know  that  when  the  heart  is  worn  out  by 
years  of  sorrow,  or  crushed  by  a  heavy  blow,  there  is  a  sort  of 
painful  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  it  is  dead,  that  never 
more  can  it  bleed  and  suffer  as  it  has  done  before.  Yes,  I  am 
thankful  that  the  worst  is  over  now." 

"I  did  not  mean  in  that  sense,  Grace,"  he  answered.  "I  do 
not  believe  that  after  these  past  years  of  your  life  your  heart  will 
be  capable  of  what  we  call  happiness,  but  it  is  not  so  dead  that 
it  cannot  enjoy  peace,  blessed  peace,  rest,  and  quiet,  after  years 
of  storm.  Nor  is  it  so  dead  that  it  will  be  indifferent  to  the 
kind  and  soothing  offices  of  kindred  and  friendship.  Very  mer- 
ciful is  it  that  at  this  crisis  of  your  life  you  should  have  access  to 
such  friends  as  those  at  the  Hall,  that  your  newly-revealed  ties 
should  bind  you  to  hearts  so  full  of  kindness  and  sympathy. 
Had  your  husband's  family  been  other  than  they  are,  their  cold- 
ness or  indifference  might  have  increased  the  chilling  desolation 
of  your  heart ;  but  as  it  is,  you  will  find  in  their  love  a  support,  a 
comfort,  which,  as  yet,  you  can  scarcely  realize." 

"Yes,  I  can.  Uncle  John.  I  have  known  for  years  what  a 
comfort  it  would  be  to  me  to  be  taken  to  their  hearts  as  sister 
and  daughter;  and  had  they  not  been  just  what  they  are,  I  should 
not  have  told  them  what  tbey  know  now." 

"Grace,"  he  said,  "you  have  surprised  them  by  the  revelation 
of  what  you  are  to  them.  You  will  be  yourself  not  less  amazed 
to  find  out  what  you  are  to  me.  Your  claim  upon  Mr.  Cameron 
is  a  strong  one,  upon  me  it  is  tenfold  stronger;  and  were  I  to  de- 
vote the  brief  remnant  of  my  life  entirely  to  you  it  would  be  quite 
too  short  to  cancel  the  oi3ligation  which  I  owe  to  tlie  child- 
angel,  whose  innocence  and  gentle  companionship  recalled  me 
from  a  wretched  misanthropy  to  my  better  self" 

Uncle  John  then  told  her  the  whole  story.  When  he  had 
finished,  she  exclaimed,  with  tears  : 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John !  if  you  had  only  told  me  this  long  ago ;  if 
you  had  only  told  me  then  what  my  poor  old  father  said  to  you, 
he  would  have  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  at  the  last  hour  of 
his  life  the  daughter  whom  he  had  sought  so  long,  and  I  would 
have  had  the  mournful  privilege  of  closing  those  eyes,  which,  as 
it  was,  were  sealed  by  stranger  hands.  What  would  I  not  give 
to  have  known  then  what  you  have  told  me  now  I" 

"And  what  would  I  not  give  if  I  had  told  you  !    But  you  must 


CAMERON    HALL.  411 

remember  that  he  was  absolutely  dying  when  I  heard  it.  But 
had  it  been  otherwise,  I  should  probably  not  have  told  you,  since 
I  little  dreamed  that  you  had  ever  heard  more  of  George' Cam- 
eron than  his  name." 

"My  poor,  poor  father  I"  she  said,  as  her  tears  fell  rapidly. 
"A  wanderer  all  his  life,  a  wanderer  even  to  the  end  !    Strange 
indeed,  was  the  Providence  that  brought  him  to  die  almost  at  his 
daughter's  door,  and  yet  denied  him  the  privilege  of  that  dauo-h- 
ter's  care,  and  left  him  for  strangers  to  nurse,  for  strangers^to 
bury  I     Ah,  Uncle  John  !    how  mucl^,  chastening  I  must  have 
needed,  how  much    I   have   received !     Mj  life,  unlike  that  of 
others,  has  not  been  checkered  with  joy  and  sorrow ;  its  only 
variety  has  been  the  different  shades  and  kinds  of  grief.     The 
young,  unprotected  daughter,  patiently  watching  and  longing  for 
the  father  who  never  came;  the  forsaken  wife,  looking  and  pray- 
ing for  the  return  of  the  husband  from  whom  she  was  separated 
though  she  knew  it  not,  by  a  chasm  wider  and  deeper  than  that 
of  death ;  the  helpless  mother,  thrown  out  upon  the  world  with 
her  blind  baby,  in  a  life-long  exile  from  all  whom  she  had  ever 
known,  and  bearing,  through  weary  years,  a  sorrow  which  was 
eatmg  out  her  very  heart;    to  find  herself,  when  she  had  just 
reached  the  meridian  of  life,  the  widow  of  a  condemned  traitor, 
and  to  learn  that  the  father  for  whom  she  had  waited  in  vain  in 
her  youth  had  at  last  died  within  the  very  sound  of  her  voice  I 
Oh !  what  other  and  what  different  kinds  of  sorrow  can  still  be 
in  reserve  for  me  ?" 

Uncle  John  listened  in  silence  to  the  sad  catalogue  of  sorrows 
which  she  rehearsed.  He  had  learned  that  in  all  great  griefs, 
words  are  but  empty  sounds,  and  that  the  true  secret  of  friendly 
comfort  is  silent  sympathy.  So  he  said  not  a  word,  but  waited 
a  little  while,  and  then  grasping  her  hand,  said  kindly: 
"  May  God  support  and  help  you,  Grace  !" 
He  then  went  away  and  left  her  alone  with  her  sorrow. 


CHAPTER  XXY. 


Time  now  dragged  heavily  both  at  the  Hall  and  the  cottage. 
Eva's  glad  voice  was  hushed,  and  her  girlish  heart  was  sobered 
by  womanly  fears  and  anxieties;  and  as  she  conjured  up  a  thou- 
sand torturing  fancies  with  regard  to  Willie,  she  sometimes  re- 
membered with  surprise,  and  it  may  be  with  a  feeling  of  self- 


412  CAMERON    HALL. 

reproach  too,  the  light-hearted  carelessness  with  which  she  had 
once  spoken  of  war,  and  the  anxieties  of  mothers,  sisters,  and 
lovers.  » 

Julia  was,  if  possible,  more  quiet  than  ever.  She  was  altered 
in  appearance  since  Charles  Beaufort  left  her,  for  sorrow  must 
and  will  have  a  vent ;  if  not  in  words  and  tears,  it  will  reveal  itself 
in  the  cheek,  the  eye,  the  step.  Once  she  had  tried  to  conceal 
her  trouble,  but  there  was  no  longer  any  need  of  this,  for  in  the 
great  calamity  that  had  fallen  upon  their  house  there  was  a  suf- 
ficiently apparent  cause  for  her  distress.  And  indeed  for  the 
present  this  had  swallowed  up  all  other  thoughts.  George  and 
his  fearful  doom  absorbed  her  mind,  and  if  sometimes  the  recol- 
lection of  Charles  would  for  a  moment  intrude,  and  she  remem- 
bered vrith  a  pang  how  completely  she  was  severed  from  him  now, 
she  instantly  checked  the  selfishness  which  could  bring  into  the 
account  her  individual  suffering,  when  her  brother's  crime  had 
been  so  fearfully  expiated,  and  such  a  blight  had  fallen  upon  the 
whole  name  and  family. 

"I  cannot  realize  that  to-morrow  is  Christmas;  can  you,  sis- 
ter?" asked  Eva. 

"Not  now,  Eva;  but  we  will  when  we  get  into  the  church  to- 
morrow." 

Julia  worked  away  industriously  at  the  little  garland  of  cedar 
and  holly  berries,  which  was  designed  for  the  portrait  of  her 
mother  that  hung  in  her  father's  room,  and  was  the  only  thing 
about  the  house  which  was  to  wear  its  accustomed  Christmas 
dress.  As  she  twined  it  around  the  frame,  the  soft,  gentle  eyes 
seemed  almost  to  smile  upon  her,  and  it  was  with  a  mingled  feel- 
ing of  pleasure  and  pain  that  she  looked  at  the  face  so  identified 
with  her  childhood  :  pain,  at  the  recollection  of  that  young 
brother  so  vividly  recalled  by  the  sight  of  the  mother ;  and  plea>ure, 
'as  she  thought  that  her  peace  could  not  be  disturbed,  as  theirs 
was,  bv  that  brother's  mournful  fate. 

There  was,  indeed,  nothing  in  the  aspect  of  Cameron  Hall  on 
Christmas  morning  to  remind  them  of  the  festal  day.  Quiet,  sad 
faces  met  each  other  with  the  accustomed  "good  morning,"  be- 
cause their  lips  could  not  frame  the  mockery  of  the  Christmas 
greeting.  Their  little  breakfiist-table  was  a  painful  contrast  to 
the  long,  well-filled  board,  surrounded  by  gay  and  happy  guests, 
who  were  wont  to  come  to  spend  the  happy  season  at  Cameron 
Hall ;  the  parlor  was  cold,  cheerless,  and  desolate,  where  usually 
the  blazing  fire  roared  up  the  spacious  chimney,  diffusing  cheer- 
ful warmth  and  a  ruddy  glow  upon  the  assembled  party ;  while 
vases  looked  bright  and  gay,  filled  with  the  evergreens  and  the 
holly,  and  family  portraits  smiled  upon  the  guests  from  their 


CAMERON     HALL.  413 

frame-work  of  fresh  green  garlands.  There  was,  indeed,  nothing 
at  Cameron  Hall  now  that  looked  like  Christmas.  All  was  cold 
and  quiet ;  and  as,  after  their  unsocial  meal,  the  father  and  daugh- 
ters repaired  in  silence  to  the  library,  instead  of  following  a  gay 
troop  of  guests  into  the  parlor,  as  they  had  done  a  year  ago, 
they  perhaps  realized,  m,ore  painfully  than  ever  before,  the  change 
that  one  short  year  had  produced  in  their  feelings  and  their  cir- 
cumstances. 

Mr.  Cameron  looked  sadly  upon  his  daughters,  and  said : 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,  my  children.  This  will  be  no  Christmas 
to  you." 

"Not  so  gay  and  merry  a  Christmas,  papa,"  replied  Julia,  "  as 
we  have  been  accustomed  to ;  but  perhaps,  after  all,  a  better  one. 
The  recollections  of  this  day,  with  its  quiet,  sober  sadness,  may 
hereafter  give  us  more  real  pleasure  than  have  some  of  our  more 
cheerful  ones." 

Julia's  words  verified  themselves  in  her  feelings,  when  she  was 
that  morning  seated  in  church.  The  calmness  and  stillness  from 
which  she  had  come  were  much  more  favorable  to  devotion  than 
the  scene  of  bustle  and  noisy  mirth  from  which  she  generally  on 
that  day  found  her  refuge  within  the  sanctuary ;  and  never  before 
had  the  church  seemed  such  a  quiet,  peaceful  haven  as  it  did  this 
day,  when  a  whole  nation  was  convulsed  and  heaving  with  the 
storm  of  war.  The  lesson  drew  a  vivid  picture  of  the  terrible 
reality  in  the  words :  "  Every  battle  of  the  warrior  is  with  con- 
fused noise  and  garments  rolled  in  blood;"  and  then,  clear  and 
distinct  above  the  clash  of  arms  and  the  shout  of  contending 
armies  was  heard  the  prophetic  promise  of  the  Child- Governor, 
the  promise  whose  fulfillment  they  had  this  day  come  to  cele- 
brate ;  the  Child  in  gentleness  and  tenderness,  yet  strong  enough 
to  bear  the  government  upon  His  shoulder.  Oh,  how  blessed, 
when  the  whole  nation  was  scourged  and  panting  and  bleeding 
beneath  the  lashings  of  war,  to  hear  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  ! 
How  inexpressibly  blessed,  when  injustice  and  oppression  and 
wrong  and  robbery  were  abroad  in  the  land,  to  hear  of  a  king- 
dom that  should  be  "established  with  judgment  and  with  justice 
from  henceforth  even  forever;"  and  to  know  that  "  the  zeal  of  the 
Lord  of'Hosts"  was  pledged  to  perform  this  !  Nor  was  there 
anything  in  the  grand. exultant  Christmas  music  that  was  incom- 
patible with  surrounding  circumstances.  AH  the  sweeter  and 
more  glorious  was  the  song  of  the  Herald  Angels,  because  they 
sang  of  Peace  above  a  world  distracted  by  war,  of  Good  Will, 
above  opposing  armies,  each  thirsting  for  the  other's  blood  ;  and 
it  needed,  indeed,  an  angel-choir  to  "shout  the  glad  tidings"  to 
an  oppressed  and  invaded  land,  that  "Messiah  is  King;"  that, 

35* 


414  CAMERON    HALL. 

high  above  all  human  government,  and  controlling  all  confusion 
and  misrule  and  anarchy,  whether  man  wills  it  or  not,  "  Messiah 
is  Kingl" 

It  was,  indeed,  a  precious  Christmas  service,  full  of  soothing 
comfort,  and  Julia  felt  it  in  her  inmost  soul.  Her  troubled  heart 
stayed  itself  upon  the  government  of  that  kingdom  of  which  she 
had  now  heard,  and  she  felt  so  secure  under  it  that,  for  the  time 
being,  she  rose  far  above  all  anxieties  and  fears,  both  with  regard 
to  the  final  destiny  of  the  country  and  the  personal  safety  of  her- 
self and  all  who  were  dear  to  her.  She  felt  so  quiet  and  peace- 
ful that,  as  she  passed  out  of  the  church,  she  turned  round  at  the 
door,  with  a  lingering  regret  to  cross  its  sacred  threshold  and 
find  herself  once  more  in  the  turmoil  and  unrest  of  her  earthly 
life.  Sweetlv  smiled  the  church  in  its  Christmas  dress.  Font 
and  column,  desk  and  chancel  were  wreathed  and  garlanded,  and 
ivy  and  holly  and  cedar  had  combined  to  beautify  His  sanctuary, 
and  to  make  His  earthly  temple  glorious.  There  was  no  Christ- 
mas at  Cameron  Hall,  and  at  many  another  home  in  the  land, 
where  once  they  had  held  high  festivity;  but  there  was  Christmas 
in  the  church.  Grief  and  trouble  may  hush  the  voices  of  earthly 
mirth ;  but  the  church's  songs  of  praise  are  but  the  sweeter  when 
they  ring  out  in  the  sadness  and  gloom  of  the  night  of  sorrow  ! 

AH  the  other  worshipers  were  gone,  but  still  Julia  stood  and 
looked.  She  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  been  there,  when 
she  felt  a  gentle  touch  upon  her  shoulder.  It  was  Uncle  John, 
whose  only  Christmas  greeting  was  a  look  of  sympathy,  a  grasp 
of  the  hand,  and  a  "Grod  bless  you,  my  daughter!" 

As  she  turned  round  to  leave  the  church,  Charles  Beaufort 
stood  in  the  aisle  before  her. 

In  an  instant  the  quiet  and  peace  were  all  gone,  and  the  old 
pain  had  come  back.  She  gave  him  her  hand  in  silence;  he  held 
it  a  moment,  and  then,  placing  it  upon  his  arm,  led  her  out  with- 
out a  word.     When  they  reached  the  carriage,  he  said  ; 

"  May  I  come  this  afternoon  ?" 

She  answered,  "yes  :"  the  door  was  closed,  and  they  drove  ofif. 

So  sudden  had  been  their  meeting,  and  so  quickly  was  it  over, 
that  it  seemed,  indeed,  like  a  dream.  She  tried  to  collect  her 
thoughts  so  as  to  be  prepared  to  meet  him  calmly  ;  but  fier  heart 
was  all  in  motion  now,  and  its  painful  excitement  was  beyond  her 
power  to  quell.  His  feelings  toward  her  had  not  changed  ;  she 
needed  no  words  to  tell  her  that.  There  was  something  in  his 
look  and  manner,  even  in  the  quiet,  protecting  way  in  which  he 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  that  said  plainly  that  he  felt  it  to  be 
his  right  and  privilege  to  take  care  of  her. 

It  was  with  a  heating  heart  and  a  flushed  cheek  that  she  met 


CAMERON    HALL.  415 

him  in  the  afternoon.  His  manner  was  respectfal,  nay,  almost 
reverential,  but  it  was  mingled  with  a  tenderness  that  could  not 
be  mistaken  ;  and  before  she  took  her  seat,  or  a  word  had  been 
spoken,  she  knew  that  she  must  go  through  the  same  scene  as  on 
that  summer  night. 

"  Julia,"  he  said,  "  I  have  literally  fulfilled  your  commands.  I 
have  not  intruded  myself  by  word,  letter,  or  message ;  but  you 
little  know  what  that  obedience  has  cost  me." 

He  waited  for  a  reply ;  but  receiving  none,  he  continued  : 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  again  the  same  question ;  perhaps  to  re- 
ceive the  same  ansjprer  which  has  weighed  so  heavily  upon  my 
heart  ever  since  I  left  you.  I  have  come  to  ask  if  that  same 
barrier  still  separates  us  ;  and  if  so,  may  I  now  know  what  it  is  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid,  Charles,  that  it  will  separate  us  now  more  widely, 
more  hopelessly  than  ever." 

"Afraid  !"  he  exclaimed,  gladly  seizing  upon  the  word.  "  Then, 
Julia,  you  would  not  willingly  have  it  so  1  Only  tell  me  this,  only 
assure  me  that  this  barrier  is  not  one  of  your  own  making,  and  I 
will  not  even  yet  despair.  Oh,  Julia  1"  he  added,  with  an  earn- 
estness that  went  to  her  very  heart,  "only  tell  me  that  the  hopes 
which,  slender  as  they  are,  have  nevertheless  sustained  me  for 
months, — only  say  that  these  speak  the  truth,  and  I  will  try  to  be 
satisfied." 

He  took  the  prayer-book  from  his  pocket,  and  unfolded  the 
leaves,  revealing  the  little  faded  flowers.  Julia's  face  was  crim- 
son, as  she  said  : 

"  I  quite  forgot  those  when  I  gave  you  that  book.  I  have  re- 
membered them  since,  ai^d  hoped  that  you  would  not  discover 
their  hiding-place." 

"  You  have  wished  me,  then,  deprived  of  my  only  comfort  in 
connection  with  yourself  I  You  sent  me  away  without  one  word, 
except  the  assurance  that  between  us  there  was  a  wide  gulf. 
"What  it  was,  or  whether  it  might  ever  be  spanned,  I  did  not 
know.  I  only  knew  that  you  seemed  to  think  it  impassable.  One 
day  I  found  these  flowers,  which  seemed  silently  to  contradict 
your  actions.  They  assured  me  that  no  indifferent  heart  could 
have  thus  carefully  preserved  these  memorials  of  that  Sunday 
evening.  From  them  I  drew  hope  and  comfort:  comfort,  in  the 
belief  that  your  heart  did  not  respond  to  your  actions ;  and  hope, 
in  the  thought  that  no  artificial  barrier  could  eternally  separate 
two  loving  hearts.  I  added  to  them  others,  that  had  been  as 
carefully  preserved  as  themselves:  do  you  recognize  them?" 

He  held  up,  as  he  spoke,  the  flowers  tied  together  by  a  blade 
of  grass. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  remember  them  well." 


416  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Julia,  these  flowers  have  brought  me  back.  But  for  them,  I 
might' have  acquiesced  hopelessly  in  your  decree,  fliight  perhaps 
never  have  consented  to  the  risk  of  feeling  again  the  same  pain 
that  you  once  inflicted  on  me.  Tell  me,  do  they  speak  the  truth  ? 
May  I  rely  upon  their  silent  testimony,  and  believe  that  you  are 
not  indifferent  to  me,  that  if  you  could,  you  would  be  willing  to 
remove  this  barrier?" 

She  replied  in  a  voice  that  trembled  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  : 

"  Yes,  Charles,  these  flowers  do  speak  the  truth.  I  owe  it  to 
you  to  tell  you  so  now,  and  I  regret  that  I  did  not  do  so  at  first. 
It  might  perhaps  have  spared  us  both  much^pain  if  I  had  then 
told  you  all." 

"  Heaven  bless  you  for  that  confession,  Julia  1  It  is  worth 
much,  very  much  to  me." 

"  You  must  not  build  any  hopes  upon  it,"  she  answered,  sadly; 
"  for,  as  I  told  you  just  now,  we  are  more  widely,  more  hopelessly  ' 
separated  than  ever." 

"How  can  that  be,  Julia?  Y^ou  acknowledge  that  you  love 
me  I" 

"  Yes,  with  all  the  strength  of  woman's  devotion." 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  that  ought  to,  or  that  shall  separate 
us.  What  is  it,  Julia  ?  You  owe  it  to  me  also  to  tell  me  that. 
I  have  offered  you  all  that  a  man  can  offer,  and  I  might  at  least 
have  the  poor  satisfaction  of  knowing  why  such  love  as  mine  for 
you  must  be  rejected." 

"Yes,"  ghe  answered,  "  I  ought  to,  and  I  will  tell  you  why." 

She  hesitated,  turned  deadly  pale,  and  then,  with  a  painful 
effort,  which  awakened  his  deepest  sympathy,  she  said : 

"I  cannot  marry  you,  Charles,  because — because  I  am  the 
sister  of  George  Cameron  1" 

"And  is  that,  indeed,  all  ?"  he  asked.  "  Is  it  not  enough  that 
he  should  be  able  to  grieve  your  heart,  even  as  it  is  now ;  do  you 
intend  that  his  erring  life  and  sad  end  shall  blight  the  happiness 
of  your  whole  life  ?" 

"God  knows  that  I  do  not  intend  it,  but  I  am  afraid  that  it 
must  be  even  so.  I  can  neither  extract  the  sting  nor  wash  out 
the  disgrace,  and  so  I  must  be  content  to  suffer  the  one  and 
wear  the  other.  Surely,  Charles,  you  cannot  wonder  now  at  my 
unwillingness  to  bind  upon  another  the  chains  which  so  gall  my- 
self; you  cannot  think  it  strange  that  I  will  not  consent  to  bring 
to  my  husband  the  dowry  of  such  a  name  I" 

"A  dowry  which  I  or  any  other  man  might  gladly  accept, 
when  the  name  belonged  to  such  a  woman  as  Julia  Cameron. 
You  are  and  must  ever  be  to  me  what  you  are  in  yourself, — pure, 
noble,  and  unstained ;  and.  the  crime  of  a  whole  generation  of 


CAMERON    HALL.  417 

Camerons  could  no  more  sully  your  character,  or  affect  you  per- 
sonally, than  could  the  foul  earth  at  the  base  of  Mont  Blanc  stain 
the  snow  upon  its  summit." 

"  You  are  honest  and  sincere,  Charles,  in  what  you  say  now, 
but  your  feelings  have  obscured  your  judgment.  I  believe  that 
you  would  be  perfectly  willing  to  marry  me  now,  but  when  the 
heat  of  passion  should  be  over,  and  you  could  look  calmly  upon 
the  fact  that  you  had  forever  linked  your  untarnished  name  to 
such  as  mine,  you  would  not  feel  that  any  degree  of  love  from 
me  could  repay  the  sacrifice,  and  you  would  realize,  when  it  was 
too  late,  that  a  good  name  is  indeed  the  most  priceless  of  earth's 
treasures." 

"I  know  it  already,  Julia;  I  do  not  need  to  learn  it;  but  I 
could  not  lose  mine  by  giving  it  to  you.  I  shall  rejoice  and  be 
proud  to  hear  you  called  by  my  name ;  and  yet  I  speak  truly 
when  I  say  that  I  will  regi'et  that  you  must  lose  your  own,  for 
the  name  of  Julia  Cameron  is  to  me  synonymous  with  all  that  is 
upright,  truthful,  and  beautiful  in  character,  and  so  long  as  you 
yourself  have  not  degraded  and  sullied  it,  so  long  must  it  remain 
as  fair  and  spotless  as  it  is  now." 

"  The  world,  Charles,  does  not  so  regard  it.  Unfortunately, 
we  are  so  linked  together  here,  that  the  crime  of  one  member  of  a 
family  darkens  not  only  the  life  and  character  of  the  individual, 
but  that  of  all  the  rest  as  well.  And  if  one  thing  more  than  another 
has  been  to  me  a  source  of  painful  gratitude,  it  is  that  you  were 
prevented  from  speaking,  and  I  from  hearing  these  words  two 
years  ago.  Had  it  been  otherwise,  the  crime  of  George  Cam- 
eron would  have  extended  its  baneful  blight  to  your  name  as  well 
as  mine,  and  my  life  would  have  been  doubly  embittered  by  the 
thought  that  I,  who  meant  to  bring  to  my  husband  only  the  de- 
votion of  a  loving  heart,  should  have  brought  him  instead  the 
heritage  of  shame  and  disgrace." 

"  Would  to  God  that  those  words  had  been  spoken,  that  you 
had  been  irrevocably  mine  before  this  accursed  crime  had  ever 
been  committed  I  Then  it  should  have  been  my  privilege  to  teach 
you  that  you  yourself  only  could  estrange  me  from  you,  and  that 
so  long  as  you  remained  your  own  true  and  loving  self,  all  the 
combined  falsehood  and  crime  of  the  whole  world  could  be,  in  its 
effect  upon  you,  nothing  more  than  a  passing  breath  upon  the 
clear  mirror.  Ah,  Julia,  Julia  I  if  your  love  were  like  mine,  if 
your  happiness  were  as  dependent  upon  me  as  mine  is  upon  you, 
you  would  not,  you  could  not  thus  send  me  away.  There  is 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing  under  heaven  but  your  own  decree, 
that  could  separate  me  from  you.  Nothing  that  father,  sister, 
brother  could  do,  would  alter  my  feelings  toward  you.    My  love 


418  CAMERON    HALL. 

was  not  awakened  by  any  other  than  yourself,  and  therefore 
nothing  that  another  might  do  could  possibly  aflfect  it." 

"Charles,"  she  answered,  "I  did  not  expect,  and  I  certainly 
have  not  deserved  this  reproach  from  you.  The  world  calls  me 
cold,  undemonstrative,  perhaps  unfeeling,  but  I  thought  that 
you,  at  least,  knew  me  better.  I  thought  that  after  the  confes- 
sion I  have  made,  after  I  had  told  you  that  you  have,  and  have 
long  had,  my  whole  heart,  you  would  accept  this  as  the  strongest 
proof  of  the  unselfishness  of  my  love  for  you.  If  I  did  not  love 
you  so  well,  if  I  did  not  love  you  a  thousandfold  better  than  my- 
self, if  I  were  not  willing  to  sacrifice  my  own  happiness  rather 
than  yours,  I  would  have  answered  you  otherwise.  Ah,  Charles!" 
she  added,  with  mournful  earnestness,  "you  little  know  what  I 
am  doing  for  myself  now.  I  am  deliberately  surrendering  myself 
to  a  life  of  lonely  sorrow;  I  am  accepting  for  my  heart  a  life- 
long starvatioi^a  perpetual  denial  of  that  love  on  which  alone  its 
happiness  can  exist !" 

"Then  by  Heaven!"  he  exclaimed,  "it  shall  not  be:"  and 
springing  from  his  chair,  he  walked  hurriedly  up  and  down  the 
room.  "  Julia,  you  have  no  right  to  act  thus,  no  right  thus 
obstinately  to  reject  the  happiness  which  you  acknowledge 
that  your  heart  craves,  and  which  God  has  placed  within  your 
grasp.  It  is  as  great  a  wrong  as  for  the  dying  man  to  push 
from  his  lips  the  draught  that  might  save  his  life !" 

"You  are  excited  now,"  she  answered,  quietly;  "but  could 
our  positions  be  reversed,  could  you  stand  in  my  place,  and  I  in 
yours,  you  would  feel  just  as  I  do,  and  the  stronger  your  love 
for  me,  the  greater  would  be  your  reluctance  to  give  me  a  sullied 
name." 

"Ay,  Julia,  reverse  the  positions;  I  consent  to  that,  and  see 
how  your  love  would  bear  the  test  to  which  you  subject  mine. 
Suppose  that  it  were  my  brother  instead  of  yours  who  occupied 
George  Cameron's  place,  would  that  affect  your  love  for  me? 
Would  you  deem  it  right  to* visit  his  sins  upon  me  ?  "Would  you 
feel  that  you  were  doing  justice  to  your  own  love  or  to  mine,  by 
refusing  to  me  the  sympathy  of  a  trusting  heart  when  most  I 
needed  its  sustaining  power  ?     Say,  Julia,  would  you  ?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  answered,  thoughtfully : 

"  I  have  not  taken  that  view  of  the  case.  No,  Charles,  no. 
On  the  contrary,  I  would  but  give  you  a  fuller  measure  of  my 
love,  so  that  if  possible  the  wife  might  soothe  the  pain  which 
the  brother  had  inflicted." 

"  I  knew  it,  Julia.  Had  you  answered  otherwise,  your  love 
would  not  be  what  I  believe  it  is,  nor  would  you  be  the  woman 
that  you  are.    And  can  you  not  believe  that  my  affection,  equally 


CAMERON     HALL.  419 

with  yours,  can  bear  this  test,  and  that  I  speak  what  I  really 
feel  when  I  say  that  your  brother,  instead  of  being  a  barrier  to 
separate  us,  should  only  draw  us  the  more  closely  together  ? 
Surely,  Julia,"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly,  bending  upon  her  a  look 
of  earnest  inquiry,  '*  surely,  you  cannot  doubt  me  I  You  must 
believe  in  the  sincerity  of  what  I  tell  you  !" 

"  Yes,  Charles.     True  love  admits  of  no  doubt." 

"  Then  will  you  not  be  convinced  ?  Will  you  not  be  willing 
to  look  at  this  matter  from  another  stand-point?  for,  believe  me, 
you  are  wrong,  wholly  wrong  in  your  views.  You  have  your- 
self just  confessed  that  you  are  demanding  of  me  a  different  line 
of  conduct  from  that  which  you  would  pursue  in  my  circum- 
stances." 

"Oh,  Charles,  Charles  I"  she  answered,  in  a  bewildered  tone, 
"you  have  confused  and  blinded  me.  I  have  thought  deeply, 
painfully,  over  this  subject.  I  have  honestly  tried  to  find  out 
and  to  do  the  right,  and  my  decision  is  no  hasty  6^ne.  As  long 
as  I  reflected  alone,  my  duty  was  very  clear ;  but  now,  since  I 
have  listened  to  you,  I  am  all  bewildered  again,  because  my 
feelings  and  inclinations  side  with  you  against  my  judgment. 
Please,"  she  said,  entreatingly,  "please  do  not  persuade  me  to 
do  wrong.  Whatever  else  I  may  have  to  bear,  at  least  spare 
me  this  pain,  and  let  me  have  the  consciousness  of  having  done 
right  to  sustain  and  comfort  me  in  my  trouble." 

"God  forbid,  Julia,  that  I  should  either  tempt  you  to  the  one 
or  deprive  you  of  the  other.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  do  wrong;  on 
the  contrary,  I  beseech  you  to  avoid  it," 

"I  am  painfully  confused  now,"  she  answered.  "I  cannot 
oppose  your  arguments,  nor  am  I  prepared  as  yet  to  indorse 
them.  I  cannot  trust  myself  to  your  guidance,  nor  am  I  capable 
of  deciding  this  matter  for  myself  Oh  that  I  only  had  a 
mother  I" 

"Can  you  not  talk  to  your  father,  Julia?  Surely  you  can 
trust  him,  and  he  can  advise  you." 

"  Yes,  but  not  so  well  as  a  mother.  N^one  so  well  as  a  woman 
can  understand  a  woman's  feelings,  and  none  so  well  as  the 
mother  who  has  been  herself  a  girl  can  understand  the  daughter's 
doubts,  and  fears,  and  perplexities.  But  I  will  talk  to  papa,  and 
he  shall  tell  me  whether  I  am  right  or  wrong." 

"And  will  you  not  allow  me  the  same  privilege  ?  If  you  array 
your  arguments  against  our  marriage,  it  is  but  fair  that  I  should 
be  permitted  to  urge  mine  in  its  behalf" 

"  Certainly,  this  is  your  right.  I  regret  the  necessity,  because 
it  involves  a  subject  extremely  painful  to  papa ;  but  the  interests 
at  stake  are  sufficient  to  justify  it.  But  there  are  others  whose 
advice  I  wish  you  to  ask  besides  my  father's.'* 


420  CAMERON     HALL. 

"  I  obey,  Julia,  though  you  yourself  are  sole  arbiter  of  my 
fate.  If  you  will  consent,  no  human  being  shall  separate  us. 
But  who  is  it  that  I  am  to  ask?" 

"  Your  own  parents,  Charles.  Write  to  them,  tell  them  all. 
State  the  case  in  all  its  black  and  gloomy  truth,  and  ask  them  if 
they  are  willing  that  their  son  should  marry  the  sister  of  a 
traitor.  Promise  to  do  this,  and  to  tell  me  truthfully  what 
they  say.  I  think,  Charles,  you  will  find  that  my  notions  are 
neither  so  peculiar  to  myself  nor  so  wrong  as  you  deem  them 
now.     You  will  find  that  others  agree  with  me." 

"  Whoever  else  may  agree  with  you,  Julia,  I  am  quite  certain 
that  my  parents  will  not.  They  have  no  such  morbid  notions  as 
yours,  and  they  love  their  son  too  well  to  let  such  a  thing  as  this 
shut  him  out  from  happiness.  Experience  has  taught  them  both 
the  value  of  a  good  husband  and  a  good  wife,  and  they  would 
not,  except  for  some  very  grave  reason,  deny  their  son  and  the 
woman  of  his  choice  that  happiness  which  themselves  can  so  well 
appreciate.  I  can  answer  for  them,  Julia,  without  waiting  to 
write." 

"  But  this  will  not  satisfy  me ;  you  must  promise  to  ask  their 
advice." 

"  I  will  before  I  sleep  to-night ;  and  I  will  do  more  than  this  : 
I  will  talk  the  matter  over  with  Uncle  John,  and  hear  his  opinion. 
You  have  confidence  in  him?" 

"Yes,  in  most  things;  but  in  this,  scarcely  more  than  I  have 
in  you  or  in  myself.  I  know  that  Uncle  John  regards  my  no- 
tions upon  this  subject  as  you  do.  He  thinks  that  they  are  un- 
reasonable and  morbid,  and,  like  you,  would  be  sure  to  say  that  I 
have  no  right  to  allow  them  any  weight  in  the  decision  of  this 
matter.  I  have  no  objection  to  your  talking  to  him — indeed,  I 
prefer  that  you  should ;  but  I  can  tell  you  beforehand  what  he 
will  say," 

"  I  wonder,  Julia,  that  it  has  not  made  you  distrust  the  sound- 
ness of  your  judgment,  to  find  so  many  whose  opinions  differ 
from  yours.  You  are  not  accustomed  to  be  so  unyielding  in 
other  matters." 

"  No ;  but  this  is  of  such  vital  importance,  and  so  much  de- 
pends upon  it,  that  it  behooves  me,  for  your  sake  as  well  as 
mine,  to  be  careful  lest  passion  and  inclination  should  mislead 
me.  I  know  my  own  temperament  and  disposition,  and  what  it 
requires  to  make  me  happy,  and  if  I  should  marry  you,  and  from 
any  cause  whatever,  whether  the  fault  were  my  own  or  another's, 
should  find  that  I  did  not  have  your  respect  and  esteem,  words 
cannot  express  the  wretchedness  of  my  life.  This  fear  that  you 
will  not  be  able  thus  to  respect  me  with  my  sullied  name,  now 


CAMERON    HALL.  421 

holds  me  back  as  with  a  grasp  of  iron ;  for  when  the  ardor  of 
youthful  passion  shall  have  subsided,  there  must  be  the  basis  of 
respect  and  esteem  on  which  to  found  a  reasonable,  but  none  the 
less  real  aflfection :  otherwise  there  can  be  no  true  happiness." 

"  You  are  right,  Julia,  and  it  is  just  because  esteem  and  re- 
spect are  necessary  elements  of  my  affection  that  I  have  sought 
you.  I  could  not  love  a  woman  whom  I  did  not  respect  in  my 
inmost  soul,  and  upon  whose  principles  I  could  not  rely  with  un- 
wavering trust.  Such  is  the  feeling  with  which  I  regard  you, 
and  it  is  this  which  makes  my  love  for  you  so  entirely  independ- 
ent of  the  character  and  conduct  of  all  others." 

"You  have  not  convinced  me  yet,  Charles,"  she  answered. 
"  The  truth  is,  I  am  afraid  to  be  convioced,  afraid  to  listen  to 
your  arguments,  because  my  feelings  and  wishes  are  so  strongly 
enlisted  on  your  side  of  the  question  that  I  dare  not  trust  myself. 
Of  one  thing,  however,  I  am  sure,  and  that  is  that  I  want  to  do 
right,  and  have  made  up  my  mind  that  if  I  can  find  out  what  the 
right  is,  to  do  it  at  whatever  sacrifice." 

"  But  who  is  to  decide  what  is  rig'ht  ?  You  are  not  willing  to 
trust  either  yourself  or  myself,  those  who  are  certainly  the  most 
interested,  neither  will  vou  vield  to  Uncle  John's  judgment.  Will 
you  let  your  father  and  my  parents  decide  the  question  for  you, 
and  if  their  united  judgment  shall  accord  with  mine,  and  with 
your  wishes,  will  you  promise  to  yield  ?" 

"  Yes,  on  one  condition,  and  that  is  that  you  try  yourself  a 
little  longer."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  added,  with  an 
effort:  "  You  have  not  been  fairly  tried  yet.  Wait  until  you  see 
my  brother  held  up,  as  he  will  be,  to  the  scorn  and  execration  of 
the  nation.  Wait  until  you  see  his  name  branded  in  the  public 
newspapers,  with  every  epithet  from  which  a  true,  honest  man 
shrinks,  and  see  then  if  you  will  still  be  willing  to  marry  his 
sister." 

"  I  have  been  already  sufficiently  tested  on  that  point.  The 
end  of  his  sad  career  involves  no  element  of  disgrace  that  it  did 
not  have  in  the  beginning,  and  I  knew  all  that  when  I  asked  you 
months  ago  to  be  my  wife.  Julia,"  he  added,  suddenly,  "  it  is 
hard  for  me  to  be  patient  with  you  in  this  matter.  Your  determ- 
ination and  your  unwillingness  to  be  convinced  are  absolutely 
unaccountable." 

"  Not  unwillingness,  Charles.  I  insist  upon  that.  However, 
I  have  agreed  to  place  our  happiness  at  the  disposal  of  others, 
and  if  your  parents  and  my  father  see  nothing  in  my  circum- 
stances to  prevent  me  from  becoming  your  wife,  I  will  hesitate 
no  longer." 

36 


422  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Then,  Julia,  our  happiness  is  sealed,  at  least  so  far  as  the  de- 
cision of  my  parents  is  concerned,  and  I  cannot  but  believe  that 
your  father  as  well  as  they  will  prove  less  cruel  than  yourself" 

"I  shall  be  glad  when  It  is  decided,"  she  said,  wearily;  "for 
oh,  Charles !  you  little  dream  of  the  heaviness  of  these  past 
months  of  doubt,  and  thought,  and  struggle.  I  am  exhausted, 
worn  out  in  mind  and  body." 

"And  I,  Julia,  not  less  so  than  yourself.  How  mnch  of  suffer- 
ing we  might  both  have  been  spared  if  you  could  only  have  seen 
this  thing  in  its  true  light !  Now,  however,  I  trust  that  doubts 
and  anxieties  are  at  an  end." 

"  I  would  not  have  you  too  sanguine,  Charles.  It  may  be  that 
papa's  views  will  coincide  with  mine  rather  than  with  yours.  I 
find  that  many  of  what  you  and  Uncle  John  call  my  morbid 
notions  are  not  peculiar  to  myself,  but  have  been  inherited  from 
him." 

"At  least,  Julia,  he  will  be  open  to  conviction.  Is  he  at  home  ? 
and  if  so,  may  I  see  him  at  once  ?  I  am  not  willing  to  bear  this 
suspense  and  uncertainty  another  night,  and  must  have  my  final 
answer  before  I  leave  you.  If  I  gain  your  own  and  your  father's 
consent,  I  shall  fear  nothing  else." 

In  his  interview  with  Mr.  Cameron,  Charles  did  not  encounter 
that  opposition  which  Julia's  words  had  led  him  to  fear;  for  while 
her  father  appreciated  and  sympathized  with  her  feelings,  because 
they  were  precisely  his  own,  yet,  in  a  matter  which  so  completely 
involved  her  happiness,  he  was  unwilling  to  assume  the  responsi- 
bility of  influencing  her  decision,  but  preferred  to  trust  to  that 
judgment  which  in  other  less  important  matters  he  had  generally 
found  good. 

With  a  paternal  pride,  which  his  listener  readily  excused,  Mr. 
Cameron  finished  by  saying : 

"  When  you  know  my  daughter,  Charles,  as  I  know  her,  you 
will  find  that  she  has  some  notions  and  feelings  which  are  per- 
haps exaggerated,  and  which  for  the  sake  of  her  own  happiness 
you  may  desire  to  change,  but  which  at  the  same  time  you  will 
be  compelled  to  respect,  because  they  are,  after  all,  only  the  ex- 
aggeration of  virtues,  and  show  how  little  of  base  alloy  is  mingled 
with  her  honest,  truthful  nature.  As  to  yourself,  Charles,  I 
cheerfully  commit  her  happiness  to  your  keeping,  for  I  believe 
that  you  can  thoroughly  understand  and  appreciate  her  character, 
and  are  capable  of  giving  in  return  for  the  pure,  deep  love  that 
you  have  won  an  affection  which  will  satisfy  all  her  demands. 
The  father  of  such  a  daughter  may  be  pardoned  for  saying  that 
when  you  have  married  Julia  you  will  have  found  a  wife  indeed." 

"I  know  it,  sir,"  was  the  hearty  response,  "and  I  trust  and 


CAMERON    HALL.  423 

believe  that  you  will  find  me  not  unworthy  of  the  high  confidence 
that  you  place  in  me.  Thank  you  for  it,  Mr.  Cameron,  as  well 
as  for  the  treasure  that  you  have  committed  to  my  keeping  I 
am  now  indeed  happy." 

The  few  days  of  Charles's  leave  of  absence  sped  by  too  rapidly 
for  them  both.  His  was  a  happiness  so  brightly  contrasted  with 
the  anxiety  and  sadness  of  the  past  few  months,  that  his  spirits 
overflowed  in  an  unnatural  exhilaration,  while  Julia's  feeling  was 
one  of  rest,  of  sweet  repose,  rather  than  exuberant  happiness ; 
the  same  sense  of  quiet  security  which  the  shipwrecked  mariner 
might  have  when,  after  having  given  up  all  hope,  he  awakes  from 
a  sleep  of  exhaustion  and  sorrow  to  find  his  frail  raft  floating 
safely  upon  the  smooth  waters  of  a  quiet  haven,  where  the  shore 
may  be  reached  without  an  effort.  From  this  state  she  vainly 
tried  to  arouse  herself.  She  would  not  consider  her  happiness 
complete  until  Charles  had  heard  from  his  parents,  and  she  was 
altogether  unwilling  to  surrender  herself  to  her  sweet  dream  from 
which  an  awakening  would  add  to  sorrow  the  bitterness  of  disap- 
pointment; but  Julia,  as  she  herself  had  expressed  it,  was  worn 
out  by  the  struggle  of  months,  and  after  a  vain  effort  to  resist, 
she  yielded  herself  to  Charles's  assurance,  and  rested  calmly  and 
sweetly  in  the  belief  that  from  his  father  and  mother  she  need 
expect  nothing  but  the  warm  welcome  of  loving  hearts. 

The  evening  before  he  left  Hopedale,  he  came  out  to  the  Hall 
with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand,  and  his  face  radiant  with  joy. 

"Read  it,"  he  said,  giving  it  to  her,   "read  it,  Julia.     All 
obstacles  are  removed.     jS'ow  you  are  indeed  my  wife." 

"Yes,  Charles,  your  wife,"  she  answered,  as  she  folded  the 
letter,  and  her  eyes  glflteniug  with  tears,  she  murmured  quietly 
"thank  God  I"  '  m        j» 

"And  how  long  must  I  wait  for  the  full  realization  of  my  hap- 
piness ?"  ^ 

"Until  the  war  is  over." 

*'  Oh,  Julia,  you  are  not  in  earnest !  Surely  you  cannot  be  !" 
"  Yes  J  I  yielded  my  judgment  in  the  other  case  because  it  was 
opposed  to  that  of  all  others,  but  now  I  know  that  I  am  right, 
from  the  fact  that  I  have  papa's  opinion  of  this  matter  in  the  case 
of  Willie  and  Eva.  He  thinks  that  they  ought  to  wait,  and  yet, 
with  his  usual  consideration  and  kindness,  has  promised  not  to 
insist  upon  their  separation  if  it  should  prove  more  than  they  can 
bear." 

"And  may  we  not  claim  the  same  promise,  Julia?" 
"Xo,  for  we  are  older  than  those  children,  and  ought  to  look 
at  things  in  their  true  light,  and  be  both  able  and  willing  to  sac- 
rifice inclination  to  duty.    Willie  honestly  believes  that  he  can  do 


424  CAMERON    HALL. 

a  soldier's  service  better  as  a  husband  than  as  a  lover,  while  you 
and  I  know  that  all  experience  proves  the  contrary,  and  that 
every  man  who  goes  into  the  army,  leaving  a  wife  behind,  subject 
to  privation  and  toil,  goes  with  heart  and  energies  fettered.  Xow 
I  would  not  have  you  so  hampered;  I  would  have  you  free  to  do 
your  duty.  Shall  we  not  agree  to  try  and  postpone  the  thought 
of  ourselves,  and  our  own  individual  happiness,  until  our  country 
shall  no  longer  need  you  ?•' 

"But  suppose  that  I  should  be  sick  or  wounded ?  As  my  wife 
you  might  come  to  me,  and  do  for  me  what  now  it  would  be  im- 
possible for  you  to  do.  Ah,  Julia  I  a  hospital,  in  its  best  estate, 
offers  but  a  miserable  substitute  for  the  gentle  offices  of  woman, 
and  many  a  poor  fellow  thinks,  with  a  heavy  heart  and  a  moist- 
ened eye,  of  the  life  that  he  feels  is  ebbing  away,  and  that  he 
knows  might  have  been  saved  by  the  careful  nursing  of  the  loved 
ones  at  home.     You  would  not  condemn  me  to  this?" 

"  Never.  Only  so  long  as  you  can  be  useful  to  your  country, 
do  I  consider  our  first  duty  to  her.  If  sick  or  wounded,  your 
duties  are  temporarily,  at  least,  suspended,  and  then  my  duty  is 
due  to  you.  In  such  a  case,  if  you  can  be  brought  to  the  Hall, 
you  shall  come,  and  Mr.  Derby  shall  in  a  few  minutes  seal  that 
relationship  which  will  give  me  the  wife's  place  and  the  wife's 
right  to  do  for  you  whatever  human  power  can  do  to  comfort  and 
to  heal ;  and  if  you  cannot  come  to  me,  I  will  promise  to  go  to 
you, — in  the  hospital,  in  the  tent,  on  the  field,  wherever  you  may 
be.     Will  this  suffice  ?  and  am  I  not  right  ?" 

"  It  must  suffice,  since  you  have  so  decreed  it,  and  I  believe 
that  you  are  right,  as  you  generally  are,  hut  that  right  imposes 
on  us,  on  me  at  least,  great  self-denial  ana  sacrifice." 

"  On  i^s,"  she  replied.  "1  prefer  your  first  expression.  I  am 
imposing  on  you  no  sacrifice  which  I  do  not  feel  myself,  and  which 
I  am  not  obliged  to  feel  more  heavily  in  the  quiet  and  anxiety  of 
my  separation  from  you,  than  you  will,  in  the  active  employment 
both  for  mind  and  body  of  your  daily  life  in  camp." 

''Then,  Julia,"  he  said,  sadly,  "I  am  afraid  that  our  complete 
happiness  is  still  distantly  prospective.  This  fearful  war  may  last 
a  long  time  yet." 

"I  am  afraid  that  it  will,  but  we  must  try  to  bear  our  propor- 
tion of  its  trials  bravely  and  hopefully,  thanking  God  for  the 
privilege  of  being  bound  together  in  heart  at  least,  if  not  by  the 
outward  tie." 

"  How  often  may  I  hear  from  you?" 

"Just  as  often  as  you  desire.  The  support  and  sympathy  that 
you  need  to  sustain  and  comfort  you,  I  will  be  able,  under  the 
circumstances,  to  give  better  than  any  one  else,  and  as  it  will  be 


CAMERON    HALL.  425 

my  duty  as  well  as  my  pleasure,  I  need  not  be  afraid  of  indulging 
in  it  to  excess." 

Charles  knew  full  well  that  Julia  spoke  truly  when  she  said 
that  every  restriction  imposed  upon  him  was  equally  painful  to 
herself  He  saw  plainly  that  from  her  present  decision  there  was 
no  appeal,  but  even  while  he  regretted  it  he  was  constrained  to 
admire  and  respect  her  conscientious  adherence  to  what  she  con- 
ceived to  be  her  duty,  even  in  matters  which  concern  the  affections 
alone,  and  which  are  not  generally  considered  legitimate  subjects 
for  the  restraints  of  conscience. 

When  she  bade  him  farewell,  it  was  not,  as  Eva  had  parted 
from  Willie,  in  a  flood  of  tears.  Her  face  was  very  pale,  but 
calm,  and  the  tears  trembled  in  her  eyes,  but  not  one  overflowed, 
as  she  said  : 

''God  bless  you,  Charles!  Be  faithful  to  your  God  first,  to 
your  country  next.  To  see  you  will  be  my  longing  desire ;  but 
that  you  may  do  your  duty  faithfully  and  unshrinkingly  at  all 
times,  under  all  circumstances,  and  at  all  hazards,  shall  be  my 
constant  prayer." 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

Several  weeks  had  passed  away.  Julia  was  not  what  the 
world  calls  happy,  but  she  was  very  quiet  and  peaceful.  The 
thought  of  her  brother  was,  and  she  knew  that  it  would  be  all 
through  life,  a  burden  from  which  there  was  no  escape.  Unlike 
the  pain  of  bereavement,  time  has,  for  the  feeling  of  mortification 
and  shame,  no  healing  power,  and  the  sting  rankles  as  keenly  after 
years  have  passed  away,  as  it  did  at  first.  She  found,  however, 
in  Charles's  love  a  support,  a  sustaining  power,  whose  value* she 
fully  appreciated,  and  for  which  she  poured  out  a  daily  thanks- 
giving. But  while  for  herself  she  was  profoundly  grateful  for 
that  rest  and  quiet  which  she  was  now  enjoying,  instead  of  that 
racking  torture  which  she  had  so  long  borne,  she  was  grieved  to 
see  Eva  sink  so  completely  under  the  weight  of  anxieties  and 
troubles  which  were  all  so  new  to  her.  Willie  was  still  re- 
moved not  more  than  a  day's  journey  from  her,  but  had  never 
again  returned  to  the  Hall.  There  were  no  longer  even  any 
rumors   of  raiding   parties,  but  the   country  was  still  without 

36* 


426  '  CAMERON-    HALL. 

the  Confederate  lines,  and  exposed  to  incorsions  from  the  enemy, 
and  as  he  was  yet  very  far  from  recovered,  and  the  weather  in- 
tensely cold,  he  had  prudently  heeded  the  advice  of  Mr.  Cameron, 
and  had  abstained  from  again  undertaking  a  journey  which  in- 
volved so  much  risk  and  exposure.  Willie,  while  almost  a  boy 
in  years,  began  now  to  feel  the  responsibilities  of  manhood,  and 
to  realize  that  he  must  act  for  another  as  well  as  for  himself;  for 
although  Eva  tried  hard  to  write  cheerfully,  a^she  had  promised, 
yet  he  saw  plainly  from  her  letters  that  she  needed  all  his  support 
and  encouragement  to  enable  her  to  bear  their  separation  at  all. 
He  had  promised  Mr.  Cameron  that  they  should  both  submit 
Without  a  murmur  to  his  decree,  and  he  tried  conscientiously  to 
keep  Eva  as  well  as  himself  up  to  its  fuhfillment.  His  letters  had 
been  always  bright  and  hopeful,  containing  very  little  about  the 
present,  and  with  no  mention  of  his  condition  or  sufferings,  but 
full  of  the  future,  the  blissful  future,  all  radiant  with  hope  and 
full  of  happiness.  These  letters,  however,  did  not  satisfy  Eva. 
He  had  promised  that  just  so  soon  as  he  was  well  enough,  he 
would  come  back  to  the  Hall  if  it  was  safe,  and  if  not,  would  go 
home  to  his  mother  and  sisters ;  but  week  after  week  the  letters 
came,  with  nothing  about  his  health,  and  nothing  about  either 
coming  to  her  or  going  to  them.  At  last  her  anxiety  became  in- 
tolerable. Her  repeated  questions  about  his  health  were  still  un- 
answered, and  she  knew  very  well  that  if  he  had  anything  favor- 
able to  tell  her  he  would  gladly  do  so.  At  last  she  wrote  to  him 
and  told  him  how  miserable  and  anxious  she  was,  and  that  the 
very  worst  he  could  tell  her  about  himself  would  be  less  intolera- 
ble than  her  present  suspense.  These  plain,  downright  questions 
he  could  neither  evade  nor  ignore,  and  in  his  reply  he  answered 
them  truthfully,  telling  her  that  he  was  not  recovering  so  rapidly 
as  he  could  wish,  and  that  at  times  he  still  suffered  very  great 
pain.  He  tried  faithfully  to  guard  against  any  expression  of  de- 
spondency, uttered  not  one  longing  for  her,  and  did  not  even  say 
that  he  would  be  happier  or  more  comfortable  with  her  society 
and  attentions.  But  with  all  his  care,  she  needed  no  words  to  in- 
terpret the  feeling  which,  while  he  did  not  express  it,  he  yet  could 
not  wholly  conceal,  and  her  fears  at  once  greatly  exaggerated  his 
condition,  and  she  imagined  him  suffering  as  she  had  known  him 
do  at  the  Hall.  Alone  among  strangers,  perhaps  with  neither 
surgical  skill  nor  proper  nursing,  and  this  within  a  day's  journey 
of  her  whose  duty  it  was,  and  who  had  sacredly  promised  to  do 
these  things  for  him. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  little  chair,  by  Willie's  sofa,  pondering 
the  contents  of  the  open  letter  in  her  lap.  Her  father  was  in  the 
room,  but  she  did  not  know  that  he  was  sadly  watching  her  as  she 


CAMERON    HALL.  427 

leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand,  the  young,  childish  face  contrast- 
ing painfully  with  her  attitude  of  womanly  perplexity  and  sorfow. 
Like  Julia,  Mr.  Cameron  too  had  seen  v/ith  pain  the  change  that 
had  come  over  his  light-hearted  child.  The  elastic  step,  now  slow 
and  languid  ;  the  sunny  face,  now  always  clouded  with  anxiety; 
the  bright,  laughing  eye,  now  glistening  with  tears  or  glazed  with 
weeping, — all  these  assured  him  that  the  child  of  his  home  and 
his  heart  could  never  be  a  child  again.  And  yet  there  was  no 
murmur  or  complaint.  She  had  promised  Willie  to  try  and  bear 
it  like  a  Christian,  and  she  did  so,  and  it  was  her  uncomplaining 
sorrow  that  had  so  deeply  touched  her  father's  heart.  He  watched 
her  now  several  minutes  as  she  sat  thinking  deeply,  when  all  at 
once,  as  if  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  she  sprang  up,  and  placing 
the  letter  in  his  hand,  said  : 

"  Papa,  I  have  tried  to  bear  it.  Read  this  :  sick,  suffering, 
alone,  he  needs  me.     Is  it  right  that  I  should  stay  away  ?" 

She  stood  by  while  her  father  read  the  letter,  whose  contents, 
not  less  than  her  appearance,  appealed  to  his  sympathy.  When 
he  was  done,  he  looked  for  a  few  moments  in  silent  compassion 
upon  the  struggle,  between  the  child  and  the  woman,  that  he  so 
plainly  saw  in  that  young  heart.  She  was  evidently  trying  to 
keep  back  her  tears,  and  to  bear  with  fortitude  the  burden  that 
she  felt  was  too  heavy  for  her;  but  while  striving  to  be  a  woman, 
Eva  was  in  reality  still  a  child,  and  finally  the  child  predominated. 
She  sat  down  upon  her  father's  knee  as  she  used  to  do  long  years 
ago,  and  putting  one  arm  around  his  neck,  laid  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder  and  sobbed  aloud. 

This  was  more  than  the  father  could  bear.  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  head,  and  said  : 

^      "I  cannot  separate  you  and  Willie  any  longer,  my  child.     You 
shall  be  married  at  once." 

She  jumped  up,  and  with  her  old  impulsiveness  caught  her 
father  in  her  arms,  and  kisses  were  her  only  thanks,  as  her  laugh- 
ter and  tears  were  mingled  together. 

"And  may  I  write  to  Willie,  papa,  and  tell  him  what  you  say  ?'* 

"Yes;  but  not  this  minute,"  he  added,  detaining  her,  as  like 
the  arrow  from  a  bow  she  was  darting  off  to  communicate  the 
glad  tidings.  "You  must  be  prudent  in  this  matter,  Eva,  or  you 
children,  in  your  eagerness  and  haste,  will  probably  overlook  what 
is  necessary  for  his  safety.  Willie  is  still  an  invalid,  as  this  letter 
plainly  shows,  and  must  not  undertake  to  come  to  you  until  he 
can  do  so  comfortably  and  without  risk.  We  must  first  provide 
some  means  for  him  to  get  here,  and  then  give  him  permission  to 
come." 

"  But  how  can  we  provide  means  for  him  to  come,  papa  ? 


428  CAMERON    HALL. 

"We  have  no  conveyance  to  send  for  him,  no  horses Oh,  papa  !" 

she  exclaimed,  in  nervous,  restless  haste,  "  how  can  he  come  ? 
What  must  I  do  ?" 

"The  first  thing  for  you  to  do,  my  child,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand,  "is  to  compose  yourself.  You  are  greatly  excited 
now.  Your  cheeks  are  flushed,  and  your  heart  is  beating  like  a 
sledge-hammer.  I  will  keep  you  here  until  you  are  calmed  down 
a  little,  and  then  you  shall  go  to  your  sister.  She  is  good  at 
making  arrangements,  and  perhaps,  with  Uncle  John's  assist- 
ance, she  can  decide  upon  some  plan  for  accomplishing  your 
wishes. " 

She  waited  a  little  while,  and  said : 

"I  am  quiet  now,  papa, — may  I  go  ?" 

"Not  yet." 

A  few  moments  more  elapsed,  and  she  said,  trembling  with 
impatience: 

"  Now,  papa  !  Indeed,  I  am  just  as  calm  and  composed  as  I 
can  be.     May  I  go  ?" 

"Very  calm  and  composed,  doubtless,  with  those  sparkling 
eyes,  and  that  hurried  breathing,  and  that  fluttering  heart  I  But 
go,  child,  I  will  not  detain  you  any  longer." 

She  was  gone  in  an  instant.  Her  father's  eyes  followed  her, 
and  he  murmured,  sadly : 

"Your  heart  needs  more  sunshine,  my  poor  child,  than  it  will 
find  in  this  world  of  clouds  and  shadow !" 

Eva  ran  first  to  find  Bob,  and  sent  him  with  all  speed  to  town, 
requesting  Uncle  John  to  come  to  her  as  quickly  as  possible. 
She  then  went  to  her  sister  to  pour  out  to  her  the  full  tide  of 
her  happiness. 

Thus  abruptly  summoned,  without  a  word  of  explanation, 
Uncle  John,  who  was  walkii:g  leisurely  along  the  street  when 
Bob  hailed  him  from  the  buggy,  jumped  in,  and  seizing  the  reins, 
applied  the  lash  vigorously,  but  in  vain,  for  the  poor  old  mule 
was  incapable  of  the  locomotion  that  his  impatience  demanded. 

"What  is  the  matter.  Bob?"  he  inquired  a^ixiously.  "Is  any- 
body sick  ?" 

"Don't  know,  sir,"  answered  Bob,  with  stolid  indifference. 

"Just  as  I  expected,"  muttered  Uncle  John.  "  Never  knew  a 
negro  in  ray  life  to  know  anything  that  he  was  asked.  The 
Know-Nothing  party  will  never  become  extinct  while  there  is  a 
negro  left !" 

And  venting  his  vexation  on  the  unfortunate  mule,  he  lashed 
him  again,  but  it  was  useless ;  and,  finally,  Uncle  John  settled 
himself  down  to  a  state  of  mingled  anxiety  and  impatience,  while 
the  mule  walked  quietly  along  to  the  Hall. 


CAMERON    HALL.  429 

When  he  was  told  why  he  was  sent  for,  with  a  smile  of  relief 
and  pleasure  that  belied  his  words,  he  said  to  Eva,  pinching  her 
cheek : 

"Now,  my  little  miss,  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  help  you 
out  of  your  difficulty  at  all.  It  would  only  be  punishing  you  as 
you  deserve,  for  giving  me  such  a  fright.  I  thought  that  some- 
body must  be  either  dying  or  dead,  or  that  some  dire  calamity 
had  befallen  the  family,  when  lo  and  behold  !  it  is  only  that  old 
Uncle  John's  services  are  wanted  to  help  two  children  to  get 
married  !" 

"You  must  excuse  my  thoughtlessness.  Uncle  John.     I  did 

not  mean  to  send  such  an  abrupt  message.    I  did  not  think " 

"Of  anything,  or  anybody,  Eva,  but  Willie.  Well,  I  will 
forgive  you  this  time,  on  condition  that  hereafter  you  will  be 
more  considerate.     Now,  what  is  it  that  I  am  to  do  ?" 

"  To  devise  some  way  to  get  Willie  here  comfortably  and 
safely. " 

"Which  means,"  replied  Uncle  John,  laughing,  "to  go  after 
him  and  bring  him." 

"Oh  no.  Uncle  John!"  exclaimed  Mr,  Cameron;  "she  does 
not  mean  that.  Eva  is  too  considerate  to  ask  or  wish  such  a 
thing  of  a  man  of  your  age  at  this  season.  She  only  wants  some 
advice  and  help  about  arranging  a  plan." 

"  I  am  only  a  few  weeks  older,  Mr.  Cameron,  and  it  is  not  a 
great  deal  colder  than  it  was  when  I  did  the  same  thing  be- 
fore." 

"  But  I  did  not  ask  it,  Uncle  John,"  said  Eva.  "  It  was  your 
own  voluntary  proposition.     Remember  that." 

"And  the  fact  that  you  did  the  same  thing  only  a  few  weeks 
ago,"  interposed  Mr.  Cameron,  "is  only  an  additional  reason 
why  she  would  not  be  so  unreasonable  as  to  wish  you  to  do  it 
again." 

"What  do  you  say  to  all  this,  my  daughter?"  asked  Uncle 
John. 

Eva  thought  a  moment,  and  then  replied,  frankly: 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  Uncle  John,  I  would  be  very  glad  for  you 
to  go.  Papa  is  right  when  he  says  that  I  do  not  ask  or  expect 
it,  but  I  cannot  go  so  far  as  he  does,  and  say  that  I  do  not  wish 
it.  On  the  contrary,  I  would  be  better  satisfied  for  Willie  to 
come  with  you  than  with  anybody  else,  for  he  is  not  prudent, 
and  you  would  take  care  of  him." 

"And  I  will  go  for  him,"  replied  Uncle  John,  pulling  one  of 
her  curls,  "  although  you  do  not  deserve  it,  you  naughty  girl !  My 
old  heart  has  not  quieted  down  yet." 

"And  will  you  indeed  go  for  him  ?  you  dear,  good  Uncle  John  1" 


430  CAMERON    HALL. 

she  replied,  joyfully.     "  What  can  I  do  to  repay  you  for  all  your 
kindness  to  us  V 

"  You  can  bring  back  the  roses  to  your  cheeks,  and  the  light 
to  your  eyes,  and  the  happiness  to  your  heart,  and  be  the  glad, 
merry  child  that  you  used  to  be.  I  am  half  disposed  to  quarrel 
with  Willie  for  having  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  cut  short 
your  childhood.  The  old  Hall  needs  a  child  to  lighten  it,  and 
it  has  not  had  one  since  Willie  came  here  last  summer." 

"Ah,  Uncle  John!"  she  answered,  with  a  sigh,  "the  child 
Eva  you  will  never  see  again  1  I  trust  and  believe  that  you  will 
yet  see  me  happy,  more  so  than  I  ever  was  before,  but  it  will  be 
a  different  sort  of  happiness  from  that  careless  light-heartedness 
that  I  used  to  feel.  It  will  be  a  woman's  happiness,  and  with 
that  there  must  always  mingle  some  care  and  anxiety." 

"Of  course,  no  longer  a  child  1"  he  replied,  with  a  smile,  de- 
termined to  prevent  the  conversation  from  assuming  that  shade 
of  sadness  which  seemed  now  to  tinge  everything  at  the  Hall. 
"  No  one  would  hereafter  presume  to  apply  the  epithet  '  child ' 
to  Mrs.  Eva " 

"  Oh,  Uncle  John  !"  she  exclaimed,  blushing,  "  please  don't. 
I  did  not  mean  that,  indeed  I  didn't.  Come,  now,  let  us  talk 
over  our  plan  and  decide  upon  it." 

"  It  is  already  decided,  Eva.  I  am  to  go  and  bring  Willie. 
It  only  remains  for  you  to  say  when." 

"Just  as  soon  as  you  please.  Uncle  John." 

"  Just  as  soon  as  you  can,  you  mean,  Eva.  Suppose  I  go  in 
the  morning,  how  would  that  suit  you  ?" 

"Better  than  any  other  time,  if  it  were  practicable;  but  I  am 
afraid  that  you  cannot  possibly  go  so  soon.  You  know  that  we 
have  no  horses,  nor  do  I  know  where  you  are  to  find  any." 

"  Never  mind,  I  will  arrange  all  that,  and  will  promise  to 
bring  him  safely  and  comfortably,  and  I  hope  looking  much  bet- 
ter than  we  have  ever  seen  him  yet.  Willie  will  be  a  handsome 
boy  when  the  bloom  of  health  is  upon  his  cheek,  don't  you  think 
so,  Eva  ?" 

"  He  need  not  wait  for  that.  Uncle  John.  A  face,  however 
pale  and  wan,  must  needs  be  handsome  with  such  eyes,  such  ex- 
pression, such  a  smile.  But  I  greatly  fear  that  Willie  will  neither 
be  any  better  nor  be  looking  better  than  when  we  parted  with 
him.  I  judge  from  this  letter  that  there  has  been  no  improve- 
ment whatever  in  his  condition  since  he  left  here." 

"  That  is  only  because  he  is  tired,  and  lonely,  and  homesick. 
When  he  has  the  proper  nurse,  I'll  warrant  that  he  will  get  well 
fast  enough.  We  will  have  him  back  in  the  army  in  a  few 
weeks." 


CAMERON    HALL.  431 

''  Oh,  TJncle  John  I"  she  exclaimed,  deprecatingly,  "  don't  say 
that.  It  will  be  a  long,  long  time  before  he  will  be  strong  enough 
to  go  into  service  again." 

"  Doubtless,  if  he  waits  for  you  to  say  so  ;  but  you  must  remem- 
ber, my  daughter,  that  Willie  is  a  soldier,  and  his  place  is  in  the 
army,  and  whenever  he  is  well  enough  to  go,  you  must  not  hold 
him  back." 

"Nor  will  I,  Uncle  John;  but  even  if  I  were  to  try  to  do  so, 
it  would  be  in  vain,  for  Willie  is  determined  to  do  his  duty." 

"I  believe  it,  child;  if  I  did  not,  when  Mr.  Derby  gives  the 
last  opportunity  for  objection  to  be  made  before  pronouncing 
you  man  and  wife,  Uncle  John's  voice  should  be  heard  forbid- 
ding the  bang.  I  would  never  give  you  to  a  man  who  would  be 
unfaithful  to  his  duty  at  such  a  crisis  as  this.  Would  you,  Mr. 
Cameron  ?" 

"  Never,  sir ;  but  I  am  not  afraid  of  either  of  the  children. 
Uncle  John.  Willie  will  do  what  is  right ;  and  as  to  this  child, 
she  has  a  child's  heart  but  a  woman's  principles.     We  may  trust 

her." 

When  Uncle  John  went  back  to  town  to  make  his  arrange- 
ments for  the  morrow's  departure,  Eva  wrote  to  Willie  a  glad, 
joyous  letter,  sparkling  with  her  own  overflowing  happiness. 
Uncle  John  returned  in  the  afternoon,  and  when  she  met  him, 
with  her  eye  beaming,  and  her  face  bright  and  joyous,  he  said, 
laughingly : 

"Why,  Eva,  among  other  things,  I  must  henceforth  reckon 
myself  a  tolerable  physician.  You  have  made  a  marvelous 
stride  toward  the  bloom  and  strength  of  health  since  I  promised, 
a  few  hours  ago,  to  bring  Willie  to  you.  You  look  now  almost 
like  the  Eva  of  old." 

"  I  am  happy,  now,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered,  "  so  happy  I" 

And  if  Eva  was  so  happy,  what  shall  be  said  of  Willie,  when 
he  looked  up  wearily  from  his  book,  as  a  carnage  shopped  at  the 
door,  and  he  beheld  Uncle  John's  welcome  face  !  and  when  he 
learned  wherefore  he  had  come,  and  when  he  had  read  Eva's 
letter,  his  excitement  was  quite  too  great  for  his  strength. 

"Grod  bless  Mr.  Cameron,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "for  the  kind 
consideration  which  would  not  longer  separate  us  I  I  will  have 
a  double  motive  now  for  being  a  soldier  in  very  deed  and 
truth." 

"And  Eva,  I  hope,  will  be  her  former  self.  Anxiety  about 
you,  Willie,  has  sadly  altered  her,  and  she  fancied  that  you  are 
still  as  great  a  sufferer  as  you  were  last  summer." 

"  She  is  not  far  wrong,  sir,  although  I  have  never  told  her  so. 
I  am  not  doing  well.     My  wound  is  not  healing  as  I  would  like 


432  CAMERON    HALL. 

to  see  it,  nor  do  I  believe  that  it  ever  will,  unless  I  have  a  better 
surgeon  than  I  have  here.  If  I  had  had  a  comfortable  mode  of 
conveyance,  I  should  have  gone  back  to  the  Hall  two  weeks  ago ; 
but  I  dared  not  undertake  the  journey  on  horseback  again,  for  it 
was  a  serious  injury  to  me  before,  although  Eva  does  not  know 
it.  I  have  been  thinking  seriously,  the  last  two  days,  of  trying  to 
get  home,  although  I  doubt  very  much  my  ability  to  do  so.  I 
believe,  however,  Uncle  John,"  he  added,  smiling,  "  that  all  things 
considered,  I  would  rather  go  back  with  you  to  Cameron  Hall, 
than  to  go  even  to  Alabama." 

"  That,  I  think,  is  quite  probable,  my  son.  Don't  you  think, 
Willie,  that  you  ouglit  to  be  everlastingly  grateful  to  me  for  that 
transfer  of  you  from  the  hospital  to  the  Hall  ?  1  am  sure  that  I 
little  dreamed  what  I  was  doing  for  you." 

"  Nor  did  I,  sir.  I  am  afraid,  however,  that  you  will  have  to 
take  words  only,  empty  words  for  an  expression  of  my  gratitude; 
for,  indeed,  I  do  not  know  anything  that  I  can  do  to  show  it." 

"Yes,  my  son,  the  most  acceptable  proof  of  your  gratitude, 
both  to  her  father  and  myself,  is  to  show  yourself  worthy  of  her, 
and  to  take  loving  care  of  the  child  ;  and  this  I  believe  you  will 
do." 

"God  helping  me,  sir,  I  will  I" 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  travelers  reached,  the 
grove  near  Cameron  Hall.  Willie's  head  was  out  of  the  carriage 
watching  the  winding  road,  until  a  sudden  turn  revealed  just  what 
he  expected  to  see — Eva  sitting  on  the  same  rock,  under  the 
walnut-tree,  where  he  had  found  her  before.  A  cry  of  joy  burst 
simultaneously  from  both;  Uncle  John  checked  the  horses,  and 
in  an  instant  Eva  was  beside  Willie,  alternately  laughing  and 
crying  for  joy. 

That  night,  as  Willie  was  lying  upon  the  sofa,  looking  so  com- 
fortable and  happy,  with  Eva  by  his  side,  all  brightness  and  sun- 
shine again.  Uncle  John  said  ; 

"  It  does  my  old  heart  good  to  see  you  two  children  so  happy. 
It  is  a  privilege  that  none  but  children  enjoy  now.  We  old  people 
are  too  anxious  to  be  happy ;  but  I  am  going  to  put  on  my  gayest 
and  most  cheerful  spirits  for  the  wedding.    When  is  it  to  be '?" 

"To-morrow,  sir,"  answered  Willie. 

"To-morrow,  Willie  !"  exclaimed  they  all  together. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  much  surprised.  "I  thought  that  was  under- 
stood.    Eva  said  in  her  letter  that  it  was  to  be  at  once." 

"But,  indeed,  Willie,"  said  Julia,  laughing,  "you  do  not  give 
me  time  to  make  any  wedding-cake,  or  arrange  Eva's  bridal  dress, 
or  do  any  of  the  thousand  little  nameless  things  that  go  to  make 
up  a  wedding.     What  an  inconsiderate  bridegroom  you  are  I" 


CAMEKON     HALL.  433 

"I  don't  want  to  be  inconsiderate,"  he  answered,  good-humor- 
edlv.  "  or  unmindful  of  the  convenience  of  others.  I  am  a  novice 
in  all  such  things,  and  so  my  faults  and  blunders  must  be  laid  at 
the  door  of  ignorance.  I  will  do  anything  and  submit  to  any- 
thing, on  one  condition  ;  and  that  is,  that  you  will  arrange  mat- 
ters as  expeditiously  as  possible.  As  to  wedding-cake,  we  can 
dispense  with  that  until  after  the  war ;  and  as  to  Eva's  bridal 
dress,  I  would  rather  she  should  wear  that  white  muslin  that  she 
had  on  the  evening  that  I  first  saw  her,  than  the  richest  robe  of 
silk  that  could  be  bought  in  Paris." 

"And  so  would  I,  Willie,"  said  Eva.  "I  would  like  to  be 
married  in  that  dress,  because  it  is  associated  with  such  pleasant 
memories  of  you.     May  I  wear  it,  sister?" 

"Certainly,  if  you  prefer  it." 

"And  if,"  said  Willie,  "  a  bride  without  a  veil  is  not  an  intoler- 
able anomaly,  and  if  it  is  not  unheard-of  presumption  in  me  to 
make  any  requests  with  regard  to  my  bride's  toilet,  I  would  pre- 
fer that  Eva  should  not  wear  a  veil.  When  I  look  at  her,  I  want 
to  look  right  down  into  her  eyes,  without  having  an  intervening 
cloud  to  shut  out  their  light  from  me." 

"Why,  Willie,"  said  Eva,  laughing,  "don't  you  know  that  a 
bride's  veil  does  not  cover  her  face  ?  That  is  not  the  fashion 
now." 

"I  thought,"  he  replied,  "that  the  use  of  a  veil  was  to  cover 
the  face ;  but  since  this  is  not  so,  and  it  is  a  useless  appendage, 
and  since  we  are  not  to  have  any  wedding-party,  I  suppose  we 
can  be  allowed  a  privilege  enjoyed  by  few  bridal  couples,  that  of 
selecting  our  own  dress,  without  fear  of  running  counter  to  any 
of  the  old  acknowledged  customs.  Now,  if  I  am  making  any 
monstrous  demands,  you  must  tell  me,  for  I  don't  want  to  be  un- 
reasonable or  exacting." 

"The  absence  of  a  veil,"  said  Eva,  "would  be  a  matter  of 
necessity,  if  it  were  not  of  choice ;  since  no  suitable  material  could 
be  found  in  Hopedale  now,  and  I  cannot  send  elsewhere.  You 
don't  know,  papa,  how  much  expense  you  will  be  spared  by  my 
being  married  during  the  war.  In  former  times,  it  would  have 
involved  an  expenditure  of  many  hundreds  of  dollars  with  New 
York  milliners  and  dress-makers." 

"  Which  would  not  have  added  one  atom  to  our  happiness, 
Eva,"  said  Willie.  "I  doubt  if  either  of  us  will  ever  feel  the 
want  of  those  months  of  preparation,  which  usually  employ  the 
time  and  thoughts  of  a  whole  household  on  a  wedding  occasion. 
My  Confederate  gray  and  your  simple  muslin  will  make  us  just 
as  happy  as  the  most  expensive  satin  and  broadcloth  coulcl^do." 

"  I  have  been  opposed,  from  the  beginning,"  said  Uncle  John, 
•  37 


434  CAMERON    HALL. 

"to  putting  any  unnecessary  delays  and  impediments  in  the  way 
of  the  children's  ha})piness;  and  if  they  are  content  to  do  with- 
out cake  and  furbelows,  why  not  let  them  be  married  to-morrow  ?" 

"  That  is  just  as  they  please,"  said  Julia,  "  provided  papa  does 
not  prefer  delay." 

"Tiie  delay  of  a  day  or  two  would  make  no  diuerence,"  he 
replied.  "  If  they  are  going  to  be  married  before  the  end  of  the 
war,  I  would  as  soon  that  it  should  be  to-morrow  as  any  other 
time." 

"Then,  to-morrow  it  shall  be,"  said  Willie.  "Shall  it  not, 
Eva?" 

"Yes,  Willie,  to-morrow." 

"Will  you  let  me  select  the  hour?"  asked  Julia. 

"Yes,  gladly,  sister,"  replied  Eva.  "I  would  like  something 
about  my  wedding  specially  of  your  own  choosing." 

"  Then  let  it  be  as  near  twilight  as  possible.  The  church  wears 
an  aspect  of  holy  solemnity  at  that  hourj  which  it  has  at  no  other 
time." 

It  was  just  at  sunset,  on  a  quiet  February  evening,  that  the 
youthful  pair  stood  before  the  chancel  "to  be  joined  together  in 
holy  matrimony."  The  waning  light  fell,  softened  and  subdued, 
through  the  rich  coloring  of  the  stained  glass,  and  one  clear 
bright  ray  of  the  setting  sun  streamed,  rich  and  full,  and  fell  like 
a  halo  upon  Eva's  golden  hair.  Through  the  tall  arches  and  up 
to  the  vaulted  roof,  daylight  and  darkness  were  struggling  for 
the  mastery,  and  along  the  silent  aisles,  and  in  the  empty  pews, 
the  shadows  were  gathering,  and  over  all  there  reigned  a  peace- 
ful calm,  a  holy  solitude,  a  reverent  silence,  which,  more  impres- 
sively than  words,  proclaims:  "the  Lord  is  in  His  holy  temple." 
It  was  the  hour  to  solemnize,  and  the  devotion  of  the  little  com- 
pany assembled  there  formed  a  striking  contrast  to  the  levity  and 
mirth  which  even  the  sacredness  of  the  church  cannot,  on  such 
occasions,  always  restrain. 

Eva's  dress  was  the  extreme  of  simplicity.  Her  soft,  white 
muslin  was  without  ornament,  save  the  single  white  camellia  that 
was  fastened  upon  her  bosom.  A  wreath  of  delicate  flowers, 
which  her  own  hands  had  twined,  rested  upon  her  brow ;  and 
beneath  it  fell  the  rich,  clustering,  golden  curls,  whose  luxuriance 
anjj  profusion  rendered  a  veil  superfluous  indeed. 

The  service  was  over.  Side  by  side  they  knelt  at  the  altar, 
and  the  minister's  hand  still  lingered,  in  paternal  blessing,  upon 
the  young  heads  bowed  before  him,  when  all  at  once  the  low, 
trembling  tones  of  the  organ  broke  the  stillness,  not  in  an  out- 
burst of  joyous  music,  but  in  rich  melody,  interwoven  with  a 
minor  strain  of  plaintive  sorrow.     Deep  and  solemn  rolled  the 


CAMERON    HALL.      .  435 

tide  of  music  through  the  gathering  darkness,  and  now  and  then 
a  note  of  low,  sobbing  bass  fell  almost  like  a  wail  upon  the  ear 
and  heart.  In  silence  and  wonder  they  all  listened  to  the  blind 
child,  as  she  interpreted  their  feelings  by  her  own  music.  It  is 
never  with  a  feeling  of  uumiugled  joy  that  the  child,  the  sister, 
is  forever  surrendered  to  the  keeping  of  another ! 

There  was  no  movement  until  the  last  note  of  the  organ  had 
died  away  into  silence,  and  then  Willie  and.  Eva  went  up  to 
Agnes.     Her  face  was  sad,  and  there  was  a  tear  upon  her  cheek. 

"My  child,"  said  her  mother,  almost  reproachfully,  ''your  music 
was  too  sad  for  a  wedding,  and  especially  for  Eva's.  She  ought 
to  have  had  glad,  joyous  music." 

"  No,  mother,  the  organ  spoke  her  feelings  as  well  as  ours.  Her 
marriage  takes  her  away  from  us,  and  takes  us  away  from  her. 
The  music  spoke  the  truth,  mother." 

"You  are  right,  Agnes,"  said  Eva,  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  "I 
am  happy,  very  happy  now ;  but  with  it  all  there  will  blend  sad 
thoughts  of  leaving  home  and  friends,  and  of  TVillie  leaving  me 
before  long.  Yes,"  she  added,  thoughtfully,  "your  music  indeed 
spoke  the  truth  !" 

When  they  left  the  church,  twilight  had  faded  away  into  dark 
night,  and  the  stars  were  shining.  Below,  all  was  shrouded  in 
darkness;  above,  all  was  clear  and  bright,  meet  emblem  of  the 
life  on  whose  threshold  those  two  young  hearts  now  stood.  Its 
trials  and  difficulties  and  sorrows,  like  the  unsightly  objects  of 
earth,  were  mercifully  hidden  beneath  the  dark  veil  of  the  future ; 
but  hope,  like  the  cloudless  vault  above,  spanned  their  earthly 
life,  and  love,  like  those  quenchless  stars,  would  only  shine  the 
brighter  in  the  darkest  night  I 

Willie  and  Eva  had  been  married  a  week.  The  bright  after- 
noon sunshine,  as  clear  and  cloudless  as  their  own  hearts,  had 
tempted  them  from  the  fire,  and  arm  in  arm  they  were  walking 
up  and  down  the  winding,  graveled  road  that  led  to  the  gate  of 
the  lawn.  All  their  talking  was,  as  usual,  of  the  future  ;  and 
now,  with  the  elasticity  of  youth,  they  had  leaped  over  all  the  in- 
tervening time  of  war  and  suffering  and  bloodshed,  and  were 
planning  what  they  would  do,  and  how  happy  they  would  be, 
when  blessed  peace  should  once  more  have  settled  upon  the  land, 
and  Willie,  his  duty  done,  his  country  free,  should  have  returned 
in  safety  and  honor  to  her  proud  and  loving  heart.  Their  home- 
picture  was  a  sweet  one,  for  its  outlines  were  sketched  by  a  vivid, 
youthful  fancy,  and  its  colors  were  borrowed  from  the  rainbow  of 
hope,  and  the  whole  was  flooded  by  the  glowing  sunshine  of  warm, 
young  hearts.  No  wonder  that  its  serene  and  quiet  beauty  tempted 
them  to  forget  the  scene  of  strife  and  danger,  of  pain  and  turmoil 


436  CAMERON    HALL. 

which  must  be  passed,  before  they  could  realize  and  enjoy  what 
now  they  could  only  iniagine.  They  were  talking  and  dreaming 
of  the  future,  when  Uncle  John's  voice  recalled  them  to  the  pres- 
ent, as,  riding  up  behind  them,  he  exclaimed  : 

*'  I  told  you,  Eva,  that  your  nursing  would  soon  recall  Willie 
to  health  and  strength  ;  but  I  scarcely  expected  to  see  silch  won- 
derful results  in  so  short  a  time.  What  have  you  been  doing  to 
him  ?" 

"Nothing  as  yet,  Fncle  John,"  she  replied,  laughing,  "except 
to  make  promises.  He  seems  to  be  perfectly  contented  for  the 
present,  to  be  told  what  I  am  going  to  be  to  him  and  to  do  for 
him  in  the  future.  We  have  just  been  planning  a  sweet  home, 
where  we  are  to  live  when  the  war  is  over,  and  where  there  is  to 
be  a  snug  little  room  always  ready  to  welcome  Uncle  John  when 
he  comes  to  see  us  every  spring.  You  will  promise  to  do  that  as 
long  as  you  live,  won't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  daughter,"  he  replied,  with  an  involuntary  sigh,  "when 
the  war  is  over  and  you  and  Willie  are  settled  in  your  own  home, 
I  will  promise  to  come  and  see  you  every  spring.  But  how  is 
this,  Willie,"  he  asked,  with  a  sudden  cheerfulness,  as  if  striving 
to  cast  away  sad  thoughts,  "  how  is  it  that  you  have  recovered  so 
wonderfully  as  to  be  able  to  walk  about  the  yard  ?" 

"It  is  some  of  this  witch's  magic.  Uncle  John." 

"  Rather  some  of  sister's  good  nursing,  Willie.  Give  the 
praise  where  it  is  due." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "some  of  sister's  good  nursing.  She  and 
the  doctor  have  taken  me  under  their  care  this  week,  and  I  am 
much  better  for  it.  I  was  quite  sure,  as  I  told  you,  that  my 
wound  needed  better  treatment  than  it  had  had  since  I  left  here." 

Just  then  Julia  appeared,  hastening  to  meet  them. 

"Oh,  Willie  I"  she  exclaimed,  "is  it  possible  that  you  are 
walking  about  here  in  the  cold?  I  declare.  Uncle  John,  I  cannot 
trust  these  children  out  of  my  sight  for  a  single  moment.  After 
Eva's  lecture  upon  prudence,  it  would  seem  that  we  might  expect 
better  things  of  her;  but  indeed  she  knows  no  more  about  it  prac- 
tically than  Willie  does,  and  permits  him  to  do  all  sorts  of  im- 
proper things.  Come,  you  must  go  back  into  the  house  this 
moment." 

They  went  into  the  library,  where  they  found  Mr.  Cameron, 
who  asked,  as  soon  as  he  saw  Uncle  John : 

"  Where  is  Agnes  ?     Why  didn't  you  bring  her?" 

Mr.  Cameron's  heart  now  clung  to  his  granddaughter,  and  it 
was  a  triple  cord  that  bound  her  to  him.  It  was  the  same  old 
compassionate  feeling  for  her  infirmity  and  for  her  gentle  cheer- 
fulness that  had   first   drawn  him  to  her,   now  deepened  and 


CAMERON    HALL.  437 

strengthened  by  the  consciousness  that  she  was  indeed  his  own 
by  the  strongest  of  ties,  and  to  this  was  superadded  an  inde- 
scribable tenderness,  as  he  saw  in  her  a  meraorial  of  his  son, — 
that  son,  whom  as  the  wayward  youth,  the  erring  man,  he  strove 
to  forget,  but  whom  as  the  child  he  still  loved  to  remember,  the 
first-born  of  his  house,  the  infant  who  had  first  awakened  in  his 
breast  a  father's  feelings,  and  who  was  so  identified  with  the 
memories  of  his  young  wife,  his  first  home,  his  early  manhood. 
All  these  the  sight  of  Agnes  revived.  In  her  he  could  recall 
them  all,  without  the  bitterness  and  the  pang  which  ever  accom- 
panied the  thought  of  George ;  and  as  he  felt  himself  now  rapidly 
growing  old  under  the  weight  of  care  and  anxiety,  he  yvsls  thank- 
ful for  the  comfort  and  companionship  of  Agnes.  More  especially 
was'this  the  case  just  at  this  time.  Ho  had  given  up  one  daughter, 
the  other  was  pledged,  and  he  did  not  know  how  soon  she  too 
would  be  claimed  at  his  hands;  he  had  surrendered  his  only  son 
to  his  country's  service,  and  without  Agnes  he  felt  that  his  old 
age  would  be  desolate  indeed.  Besides  all  this,  Mr.  Cameron 
experienced  a  strange  sort  of  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  she 
was  blind,  that  none  would  ever  try  to  win  the  blind  child  away 
from  his  heart,  and  in  her  helplessness  he  felt  a  security  that 
while  he  lived  her  blind  life  would  be  the  sunshine  of  his  own. 
All  these  thoughts  he  had  revolved  in  his  mind,  and  there  was 
but  one  thing  wanting  to  make  his  satisfaction  complete.  He 
wanted  to  tell  the  child  that  she  belonged  to  him,  that  he  had  a 
right  to  her,  inferior  only  to  that  of  her  mother,  and  that  she 
occupied  in  his  heart  the  same  place  as  Julia  and  Eva.  He  did 
not  sympathize  in  Grace's  feelings  about  this  matter,  and  was 
restless  under  the  restriction  to  which  he  had  so  reluctantly  con- 
sented. He  had  frequently  talked  to  Uncle  John  about  it,  but 
Uncle  John  agreed  with  the  mother.     He  always  said : 

"  Let  the  mother  have  her  own  way,  Mr.  Cameron.  She 
knows  the  child  better  than  you  do,  and  thinks  she  is  happier  as 
she  is,  and  so  I  would  let  her  remain." 

And  Mr.  Cameron  felt  himself  constrained  to  acquiesce,  though 
still  unconvinced.  To  the  question  which  he  had  now  asked. 
Uncle  John  replied : 

"I  would  have  brought  her,  but  she  is  not  well  this  morning." 

"  I  trust  that  there  is  not  much  the  matter!" 

"  I  think  not,  but  her  mother  is  evidently  distressed  and  anxious. 
Indeed  the  possession  of  that  child  can  scarcely  be  called  a  pleas- 
ure, for  the  fear  of  losing  her  quite  counterbalances  Grace's  pres- 
ent enjoyment  of  her." 

"  Why  so  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Cameron.      "  I  have  never  seen 

31* 


438  CAMERON     HALL. 

anything  about  Agnes  to  awaken  apprehensions  of  that  sort.  On 
the  contrary,  I  think  that  she  has  the  promise  of  as  long  a  life 
as  any  child  of  my  acquaintance." 

"  So  I  think,  sir.  I  suppose  tliat  the  mother's  anxiety  is  natu- 
ral, and  rendered  morbid  perhaps  by  the  possession  of  only  one 
comfort  in  a  life  otherwise  made  up  of  sorrow  and  disappointment. 
Another  reason  for  it  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that  she  regards 
Agues's  musical  genius  as  an  unnatural  development,  a  premature 
maturity,  involving  premature  decay,  while,  as  I  have  often  told 
her,  it  is  no  development  at  all,  but  simply  a  gift,  which  would  be 
quite  as  wonderful  in  the  full-grown  woman  as  it  is  in  the  child, 
and  was  bestowed  upon  her  as  a  compensation  for  her  blindness. 
This,  however,  Grace  will  not  believe,  and  the  slightest  indisposi- 
tion on  the  part  of  Agnes  renders  her  as  wretched  as  anot*her 
mother  would  be  at  the  serious  illness  of  a  child.  She  is  misera- 
ble now  because  Agnes  has  not  touched  the  organ  to-day;  but 
the  child  feels  languid  and  badly,  and  does  not  want  to  play,  that 
is  all." 

"  I  must  go  and  see  for  myself  what  is  the  matter,  and  if  she  is 
sick  she  must  be  brought  here.     I  shall  insist  upon  that." 

"  You  will  encounter  no  opposition  there,  I  assure  you,  sir. 
If  Agnes  should  be  very  sick,  which  I  do  not  think  at  all  proba- 
ble, her  mother  will  find  her  anxiety  intolerable  in  the  solitude  of 
her  own  home,  and  will  be  only  too  glad  to  seek  the  sympathy 
and  assistance  which  she  will  be  sure  of  finding  here." 

"  They  ought  both  to  be  here  all  the  time,"  said  Mr.  Cameron, 
with  a  little  impatience  in  his  tone,  "  and  it  is  a  foolish  notion  of 
Grace's  that  prevents  it.  The  child  is  too  young  to  be  made 
miserable,  even  if  she  knew  it  all.  On  the  contrary,  I  believe 
that  she  would  be  happier,  for  she  is  of  an  afifectionate  nature, 
and  her  heart  would  go  out  gladly  toward  her  newly-found  rela- 
tives. As  to  myself,  I  need  her,  and  ought  to  have  her,  especially 
when  this  child  goes  away,  which  she  threatens  to  do  in  a  week." 

**  What!  so  soon  as  that,  Eva?"  asked  Uncle  John. 

*'  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Willie,  "  it  must  be.  If  I  continue  to 
improve  another  week  as  I  have  done  during  this  one,  I  shall  be 
able  by  that  time  to  undertake  the  journey  by  short  stages. 
When  I  am  fit  for  service  again  I  will  bring  Eva  back,  and  lend 
her  to  her  father  and  sister  while  I  am  in  the  army.  They  must 
promise,  however,  to  take  better  care  of  her  than  they  did  the 
last  time  that  I  left  her  in  their  keeping,  for  instead  of  the  bloom- 
ing, rosy-cheeked  girl  that  I  lent  them,  they  returned  me  a  pale, 
wan,  sad-looking  bride." 

"  That  was  not  our  fault,  Willie,"  said  Julia,  "  as  Uncle  John 
can  testify ;  and  unless  as  your  wife  she  shall  bear  up  more  bravely 


CAMERON    HALL.  439 

under  anxiety  and  separation  than  she  did  as  your  betrothed,  we 
will  be  obliged  to  return  her  to  you  looking  just  as  she  did 
before.  I  hope,  however,  that  under  your  tuition  she  will  learn 
fortitude." 

"Yes,"  answered  Eva,  cheerfully,  "I  am  sure  that  I  will.  If 
Willie  had  been  at  home  with  his  mother,  or  even  in  the  army, 
strong  and  well  and  with  plenty  to  do,  I  would  not  have  been  so 
distressed  before  ;  but  it  was  because  he  was  sick  and  suffering 
and  lonely  that  I  felt  so  troubled  about  him.  But  when  he  goes 
again  I  will  bear  it  like  a  Southern  soldier's  wife.  You  will 
see  it,  sister." 

"  Tliat  is  right,  my  daughter,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  approv- 
ingly. "  Then  indeed  I  shall  have  cause  to  rejoice  that  in  my 
child  a  Southern  soldier  has  found  sympathy,  encouragement, 
and  help ;  then  1  shall  never  regret  that  I  did  not  insist  upon 
Willie's  waiting  for  a  wife  until  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  soldier." 

When  Uncle  John  returned  to  town,  Mr.  Cameron  accom- 
panied him,  and  they  went  together  to  the  cottage.  Mr.  Cam- 
eron's mind  was  now  bent  on  having  Grace  and  Agnes  at  the 
Hall,  and  since  he  could  not  insist  upon  it  openly,  as  he  wanted 
to  do,  he  determined  to  try  and  gain  the  child's  consent  uncon- 
sciously. She  was  still  on  the  sofa  where  Uucle  John  had  left 
her  in  the  morning,  but  disclaimed  the  idea  of  being  sick,  and 
said  that  she  was  only  tired. 

Mr.  Cameron  seated  himself  by  her,  and  said,  pleasantly: 

"Agnes,  how  would  you  like  for  yourself  and  your  mother 
to  come  to  the  Hall  and  stay  some  weeks  with  us  ?  It  would  do 
you  both  good,  and  as  to  ourselves  it  would  be  an  act  of  kind- 
ness to  us",  for  Julia  and  I  will  be  very  lonely  next  week,  when 
Willie  and  Eva  are  gone." 

"I  would  like  it  very  much  indeed,  Mr.  Cameron." 

Mr.  Cameron  !  how  formal  and  frigid  it  sounded  in  the  ears  of 
the  man  who  longed  to  fold  the  child  to  his  heart  and  lavish  upon 
her  a  father's  love  !  Grace  saw  in  his  face  the  painful  revulsion 
of  feeling,  and  thought  of  the  strange  fatality  that  seemed  to 
mark  every  footstep  of  her  way,  and  continually  to  bring  her  face 
to  face  with  conflicting  claims  and  opposing  duties.  It  pained 
her  thus  to  seem  to  interpose  a  barrier  to  the  love  and  caresses 
ready  to  be  lavished  upon  her  child,  and  she  felt  that  she  would 
probably  be  regarded  as  only  obstinate  where  she  knew  herself  to 
be  self-sacrificing ;  but  above  all  other  claims,  and  paramount  to 
all  other  duties,  she  considered  the  happiness  of  her  blind  child, 
and  she  determined  to  persist  in  what  she  felt  assured  would  best 
promote  it. 

Again  Mr.  Cameron  asked  : 


440  CAMERON    HALL. 

"And  you  will  agree  to  go  to  the  Hall,  Agnes,  if  your  mother 
will  consent?" 

"  For  how  long  a  time,  Mr.  Cameron  ?" 

"  Just  as  long  as  you  choose  to  stay," 

"  I  would  like  to  be  there  very  much  as  long  as  I  am  too  tired 
to  play  on  the  organ,  but  I  must  come  back  just  as  soon  as  I  am 
well  enough  for  that." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  her  face  brightened  as  she  added, 
with  the  unrestrained  freedom  with  which  she  was  accustomed  to 
express  her  wishes  to  him  : 

"  I  tell  you  what  I  would  like  very  much  indeed,  Mr.  Cameron. 
I  would  like  for  you  to  move  my  organ  to  the  Hall,  and  then 
I  would  be  willing  to  stay  just  as  long  as  you  would  like  to 
have  me." 

"  My  child,"  said  her  mother,  "  you  do  not  know  what  you 
ask.  You  have  no  idea  of  the  trouble  that  it  would  cost  to 
remove  that  organ  to  the  Hall." 

"I  did  not  know,  mother,"  she  answered,  "that  it  would  be 
any  more  trouble  to  move  my  organ  than  a  grand  piano.  I  do 
not  wish  to  trouble  Mr.  Cameron,  but  I  was  only  thinking  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  to  stay  at  the  Hall  if  the  organ  was  there. 
Then  if  you  would  stay  with  me,  I  would  rather  stay  there  than 
to  live  at  the  cottage." 

This  was  quite  sufficient  for  Mr.  Cameron,  who  said  immedi- 
ately : 

"  Never  mind  the  trouble,  Agnes.  If  it  is  practicable  it  shall 
be  done.  Perhaps  Uucle  John  can  devise  some  way  to  do  it. 
Whenever  my  girls  get  into  any  difficulty  they  always  send  for 
him,  and  he  generally  contrives  to  help  them  out  of  it." 

"Agnes,"  said  Uucle  John,  "  are  you  willing  to  trust  me  to 
take  your  organ  to  pieces  and  put  it  up  agaiu  ?" 

"  Take  it  to  pieces,  Uncle  John  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  dismay. 

"Yes,  daughter,. there  is  no  other  way  to  remove  it." 

"Then  it  must  not  be  done,"  she  said,  decidedly.  "Suppose, 
Uncle  John,  that  you  should  take  it  to  pieces,  and  could  not  put 
it  together  again,  what  should  I  do  ?" 

"You  would  do  without  it,  my  daughter,"  he  answered,  laugh- 
ing at  her  evident  alarm;   "there  would  be  no  help  for  it." 

"And  surely.  Uncle  John,  surely  you  would  not  pull  it  down 
without  knowing  whether  or  not  you  could  build  it  up  again  I" 

"  No,  Agnes,  certainly  not,"  he  answered,  seeing  that  he  had 
awakened  apprehensions  which  he  could  not  so  easily  lull.  "You 
are  not  afraid  to  trust  me,  are  you,  Agnes  ?" 

"  No — sir — "  she  replied,  with  hesitation,  and  in  a  tone  of  anx- 
iety and  doubt  which  contradicted  her  words;  "but  I  believe, 


CAMERON    HALL.  441 

Uncle  John,  that  I  would  rather  wait  awhile  before  having  it 
moved.  I  will  g^  to  the  Hall  and  stay  until  I  get  well,  and  then 
come  home  to  the  organ." 

"But  Mr.  Cameron  and  Julia  will  be  disappointed,"  replied 
Uncle  John,  seeing  that  here  was  an  insurmountable  obstacle  in 
the  way  of  Mr.  Cameron's  plans.  "  They  want  the  organ  at  the 
Hall,  so  that  they  can  enjoy  your  music.  Now  if  I  assure  you 
that  I  will  not  remove  a  single  part  of  it  until  I  am  sure  that  I 
can  put  it  back  again,  will  you  trust  me  then  ?" 

"Did  you  ever  take  an  organ  to  pieces,  Uncle  John  ?" 

**No,  never." 

"Tlien,"  she  said,  with  a  nervous  apprehension  that  she  vainly 
endeavored  to  hide,  and  at  the  same  time  with  a  feeling  of  self- 
reproach  at  her  unwillingness  to  trust  him,  "please.  Uncle  John, 
don't  touch  it.  I  am  not,— I  mean  I  don't  want  to  be  afraid  to 
trust  you,  but  I  would  rather  not  have  it  moved  just  now." 
"  Yery  well,  my  daughter,"  he  answered,  "just  as  you  please." 
But  Agnes  was  ill  at  ease.  Accustomed  always  to  yield  to 
the  slightest  expression  of  Uncle  John's  wishes,  she  felt  that 
she  had  how  not  only  resisted  him,  but  had,  at  the  same  time, 
shown  distrust  of  him.  She  could  not  see  his  face  to  tell  whether 
or  not  she  had  offended  him,  and  her  fears  had  imparted  to  the 
tone  of  his  reply  a  coldness  which  existed  only  in  her  imao-in- 
ation.  ° 

Nothing  more  was  said,  and  presently  she  asked,  timidly,  and 
looking  as  if  she  were  just  ready  to  cry  : 

"Uncle  John,  is  it  very  wrong  for  me  to  do  so  ?" 

"  To  do  what,  my  daughter  ?" 

"To  be  afraid  for  you  to  take  down  my  organ.  Oh,  Uncle 
John !"  she  said,  earnestly  and  apologetically,  ''if  you  only  knew 
what  an  organ  is  to  a  blind  child  you  would  forgive  me,  you  would 
not  be  angry  with  me." 

"Angry  with  you,  child  !  why,  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
No,  Agnes,  the  removal  of  the  organ  was  proposed  to  give  yo°a 
pleasure,  but  if  instead  it  is  to  give  you  pain  and  anxiety,  of 
course  I  prefer  not  to  do  it.  So  come,  don't  think  any  more  about 
it.  You  shall  go  to  the  Hall,  and  whenever  you  want  the  organ 
there  and  are  willing  to  trust  me,  I  will  remove  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Uncle  John,"  she  said,  much  relieved.  "  Perhaps 
some  of  these  days  I  would  like  to  have  it  there,  but  not  now." 

"  Grace,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  "  when  may  I  have  Agnes?" 

"Now,  sir,"  she  answered,  "if  you  wish  it  and  she  will  consent 
to  go  without  me.  Indeed  I  would  prefer  that  she  should  go 
home  with  you.  She  is  not  well,  and  the  arrangements  that  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  make  within  the  next  few  days  will  keep  me 


442  CAMERON    HALL. 


SO  busy  that  T  will  not  be  able  to  give  her  the  attention  that  she 
may  require."  ^ 

"  Will  you  go,  Agnes  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  yon  must  go  at  once,  so  as  to  get  home  before  sunset." ' 

"  I  must  first  say  good-by  to  the  organ.  You  will  let  me  do 
that,  Mr.  Cameron,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  it  must  not  be  either  a  long  or  a  sad  farewell,  for 
you  will  play  again  in  a  very  few  days." 

But  his  injunction  was  either  unheeded  or  forgotten.  It  was 
indeed  a  farewell,  such  a  one  as  she  might  have  played  if  she  had 
never  again  expected  to  awaken  its  music;  and  after  waiting  as 
long  as  he  possibly  could,  Mr.  Cameron  was  at  length  obliged 
abruptly  to  end  the  strain.     On  their  way  home,  he  said  to  her : 

"Agnes,  my  daughter,  I  don't  like  for  you  to  call  me  Mr.  Cam- 
eron. It  sounds  cold  and  formal.  You  call  Uncle  John,  uncle ; 
why  not  give  me  some  affectionate  title,  too  ?  why  not  call  me 
Uncle  Henry, — or  grandfather  ?  I  believe  that  I  like  that  better. 
How  would  you  like  to  call  me  grandfather  ?" 

"I  don't  think  it  would  do  very  well,  sir,"  she  answered,  laugh- 
ing ;  "for  grandfathers  have  to  be  old  men,  and  Uncle  John  says 
that  you  are  not  so  old  as  he  is.  Oh,  no,  sir,  you  are  not  old 
enough  to  be  my  grandfather,  and  it  would  sound  ridiculous  to 
call  you  so." 

"You  are  very  much  mistaken,  my  child.  I  am  quite  old, 
enough  for  that,  and  I  think  I  would  like  to  be  called  so  very 
much.     Suppose  you  try  it." 

"For  what,  Mr.  Cameron?" 

"  Simply  because,  as  I  told  you  just  now,  it  is  more  affection- 
ate." 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  make  me  love  ^ou  any  better  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  it  would,  but  I  might  fancy  that  it  did." 

"No,  sir;  no  name  could  sound  better  to  me  than  Mr.  Came- 
ron, for  whenever  I  hear  it,  it  makes  me  think  of  patience  and 
kindness  to  a  blind  child,  who  is  not  even  a  relation." 

"Have  you  never  wanted  relatives,  Agnes  ?  Have  you  never 
felt  lonely  when  you  thought  that  you  had  nobody  but  your  mother, 
no  father,  brother,  sister,  uncle,  or  aunt  ?" 

"  When  I  was  a  very  little  child  I  used  to  wish  that  I  had  a 
father  to  love  me,  as  other  children  had,  and  brothers  and  sisters 
to  play  with  me,  and  I  wondered  that  I  had  not,  for  it  would 
seem  that  a  blind  child  ought  to  have  more  relatives  than  any- 
body else  ;  but  I  have  not  wanted  them  since  I  have  known  and 
learned  to  love  you  and  your  daughters,  and  Uncle  John.  In 
you,  I  did  not  have  the  name  of  relatives,  but  I  had  everything 


CAMERON    HALL.  443 

else.  Do  you  think,  Mr.  Cameron,"  she  asked,  earnestly,  "that 
I  could  possibly  love  you  any  better  than  I  do  if  you  were  my 
uncle,  or  even  my  grandfather,  as  yon  want  me  to  call  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  my  child.  You  might  not  love  me  more,  but 
I  think  the  feeling  would  be  different.  Suppose  now  that  I  were 
really  and  truly  your  grandfather,  don't  you  believe  that  you 
would  feel  a  little  nearer  to  me  than  you  do  now  ;  would  feel  that 
you  had  a  greater  claim  upon  me,  and  that  I  was  bound  to  take 
care  of  you  ?" 

"  I  could  not  feel  any  nearer  to  you  than  I  do  now,  Mr.  Came- 
ron ;  and  as  to  your  being  bound  to  take  care  of  me,  I  only 
know,"  she  said,  with  childish  simplicity  and  trust,  "  that  if  my 
mother  should  die,  you  and  Uncle  John  would  take  care  of  me. 
Wouldn't  you?" 

"  Yes,  my  darling !  So  long  as  I  live  you  shall  never  be  en- 
tirely orphaned.  Agnes,  I  expect  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  from 
having  you  with  me  at  the  Hall." 

"  You  mean,  sir,  that  you  expect  to  give  me  a  great  deal.  I 
cannot  give  pleasure  to  anybody  except  by  my  music,  and  you 
have  no  organ  at  the  Hall." 

"  I  love  your  music,  Agnes,  but  I  love  still  better  to  talk  to 
you  and  have  you  with  me,  and  I  intend  to  make  you  my  com- 
panion. You  shall  ride  with  me,  and  walk  with  me,  and  I  will 
do  all  that  I  can  to  make  you  contented  and  happy." 

"  It  only  needs  kindness,  Mr.  Cameron,  to  make  me  contented, 
and  everybody  at  the  Hall  is  so  affectionate  to  me  that  I  cannot 
be  otherwise  than  happy  there.  Yes,  sir,  I  expect  to  have  a 
pleasant,  happy  visit,  and  if  I  only  had  my  organ  I  should  not 
care  if  I  did  not  go  back  to  the  cottage  any  more." 

When  they  reached  the  Hall,  Agnes  was  languid  and  tired. 
She  asked  permission  to  lie  down  on  the  sofa,  and  was  soon  fast 
asleep. 

"  Julia,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  "if  that  child's  organ  is  not  brought 
here  she  will  not  be  contented  three  days,  and  yet  the  bare  men- 
tion of  taking  it  to  pieces  makes  her  wretched.  I  wish  that  no- 
thing had  been  said  about  it." 

"It  might  yet  be  done,  papa,  without  her  knowing  it.  Is 
Uncle  John  certain  that  he  can  rebuild  it  ?  It  would  indeed  be 
a  calamity  if  he  should  find  that  he  could  not.  Agnes  would 
grieve  herself  to  death." 

"Yes,  he  seems  sure  of  that,  but  she  will  not  consent  at  all  to 
his  trying  it." 

"  Never  mind,  we  will  not  ask  her.  Uncle  John  and  I  will 
arrange  all  that  when  he  comes  to-morrow,  and  she  shall  be 
spared  all  anxiety  about  it.     If  we  are  expeditious,  I  hope  that 


444  CAMERON     HALL. 

the  first  time  she  wishes  for  it  she  will  find  it  at  the  Hall  ready 

for  use." 

After  awhile  Willie  and  Eva  came  in,  and  Willie  said : 
"Who  occupies  the  invalid's  sofa  now  ?     It  seems,  indeed,  to 

have  no  rest.     This  time,  however,  I  am  glad  to  see  that  it  is  not 

an  invalid,  but  only  Agnes  asleep  upon  it." 

"Yes,  it  is  Agnes,"  said  Julia,  "but  an  invalid  too.     Look  at' 

her  cheeks,  Willie;  she  has  a  fever." 

"If  her  mother  had  thought  so,"  said   Mr.  Cameron,   "she 

would  not  have  sent  her.     She  thought  it  was  only  languor  and 

debility,  and  that  the  country  air  would  be  good  for  her.     I  do 

trust,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  earnestly,  "  that  she  is  not  going 

to  be  very  sick." 

Julia  looked  first  at  her  father  and  then  at  Agnes,  and  thought : 
"  Sometimes  we  are  permitted  to  grasp  the  blessings  that  we 

crave,  only  to  teach  us  that  the  comfort  that  we  expected  is  not 

in  them,  and  the  hopes  that  we  built  upon  their  possession  must 

have,  for  their  fulfillment,  a  more  solid  foundation  than  belongs 

to  anything  earthly." 


CHAPTER  XXYII. 

The  next  morning,  when  Julia  met  her  father,  she  said: 

"  Papa,  Agnes  is  sick  and  needs  her  mother.  I  will  not  send 
for  her,  for  that  might  alarm  her,  but  if  you  will  stay  with  Agnes, 
I  will  go  for  her  myself." 

"And  bring  the  physician  too,  Julia.  I  cannot  help  feeling 
anxious  about  the  child." 

Julia  went  off,  and  her  father  took  his  seat  by  Agnes's  couch. 
He  watched  her  rapid  breathing  and  flushed  cheeks,  and  tried  to 
argue  himself  into  the  belief  that  apprehension,  from  so  slight  a 
cause,  was  both  unnecessary  and  foolish,  but  he  could  neither 
subdue  nor  control  his  anxiety. 

After  awhile,  Julia  returned  with  Grace  and  the  physician, 
who  only  laughed  at  their  fears,  prescribed  some  simple  remedy, 
and  went  away,  leaving  them,  if  not  altogether  reassured,  at 
least  willing  to  believe  that  fear  and  alarm  were  quite  useless. 

The  attention  of  the  household  was  now  divided  between 
Agues  and  Eva,  who  was  rapidly  approaching  the  time  when 
she  was  to  bid  adieu  to  her  childhood's  home  j  and  although  she 


CAMERON    HALL.  445 

tried  hard  to  comfort  herself  with  the  thought  that  she  was  only 
going  awaj  for  a  little  while,  still  she  could  not  forget  that  it 
was  a  virtual  farewell  to  her  father's  house,  which  could  never 
again  be  the  home  that  it  once  was,  first  in  her  affections,  para- 
mount in  her  thoughts      Henceforth,  another  must  divide  with 
It  her  love  and  care.     Julia  looked  forward  with  keenest  pain  to 
•the  approaching  separation,  the  first  that  the  sisters  had  ever 
known     She  thought  with  dread  of  her  loneliness,  how  she  should 
miss  the  child  who  had    been  all  her  life  a   part  of  her  daily 
thought  and  daily  care,  and  whose  pleasure  and  comfort  she  was 
as  much  accustomed  to  consult  in  her  plans  and  purposes  as  she 
was  that  of  her  father.     She  remembered,  too,  that  to   Eva's 
sprighthness  and  vivacity  she  was  indebted  not  only  for  much 
of  happiness,  but  also  for  all  the  sparkle  of  her  own  life,  and  she 
felt  a  shrinking  dread  of  the  void  in  the  house  and  in  her  heart 
which  she  1.U8W  that  Eva's  departure  would  make.     She  tried  so 
to  busy  hei-:elf  with  Agnes  as  to  shut  out  the  thought  of  the  trial 
that  awaited  her,  but  it  weighed  upon  her  like  a  horrible  night- 
mare.    She  nursed  the  child  with  unremitting   tenderness  and 
care   but  all  the  while  her  heart  ached  with  the  thought  of  Eva 

1  he  days  passed  wearily  with  Agnes,  whose  disease  was  a  low 
form  of  fever,  wasting  in  its  effects,  but  without  pain,  and  pre- 
senting no  alarming  symptom.    She  was  lonely,  and  no  entertain- 
ment that  her  mother  could  devise  amused  or  interested  hpr 
fehe  had  never   been  seriously  sick  before,  and  in  all  her  life 
Grace  had  never  felt  that  her  child  so  needed  eyes.    Dolls  flowers' 
and  picture-books,  that  for  any  other  child  would  have  varied  the 
tedious  monotony,  possessed  no  interest  for  her;  and  sometimes 
after  her  mother  had  read  to  her  and  told  her  stories  until  both 
min^d  and  ear  were  wearied,  she  would  say,  with  a  plaintive 

"I  am  so  tired,  mother,  so  tired  of  darkness!" 
And  the  mother  listened  with  shivering  dread  to  the  mournful 
plaint,  the  first  that  she  had  ever  heard  her  utter. 

Uncle  John  had  worked  perseveringly  and  successfully  to  give 
Agnes  a  pleasant  surprise,  and  when  she  had  been  several  days 
at  the  Hall,  he  was  standing  one  evening,  alone  before  the 
organ,  contemplating  with  quiet  satisfaction  the  result  of  his 
labor  and  picturing  her  glad  astonishment  when  he  should  tell 
her  what  he  had  done. 

"  Is  it  finished,  Uncle  John  ?"  asked  Julia,  coming  into  the 


room 


"Yes,  daughter,  it  is  done  ;   and  won't  our  blind  child  be 
glad  ?" 

'*  Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  absently,  and  with  a  sigh 

38 


446  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Poor  daughter  I"  said  Uncle  John.  "  You  are  thinking 
of  Eva  now.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  for  you  will  be  lonely  in- 
deed." 

"Eva  has  not  been  many  minutes  out  of  my  thoughts  in  the 
past  few  weeks,  Uncle  John,  but  I  was  not  thinking  of  her  at 
that  moment.     I  was  thinking  of  Agnes,  and  her  mother,  and 
papa,  and  you,  Uncle  John.     Sorely  will  we  all  miss  the  blind, 
child  1" 

"  What !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  start.  "  What  are  you 
saying,  Julia  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean,  Uncle  John,  that  Agnes  is  very,  very  sick." 

"  When  did  she  become  so  much  worse  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 
Why  didn't  you  send  for  me  ?" 

"  She  seems  no  worse  now  than  she  has  been  all  the  time. 
I  have  been  afraid  from  the  beginning  that  she  would  never  get 
well." 

"  Foolish  child  !"  said  Uncle  John,  kindly,  and  very  much  re- 
lieved, "  how  you  startled  me  !  I  thought  that  Agnes  must  have 
grown  suddenly  worse.  But  you  are  mistaken,  Julia.  You 
have  no  experience  in  these  low  types  of  fever,  and  do  not  know 
how  much  depression  and  exhaustion  there  may  be,  without  any 
real  danger.  The  doctor  does  not  say  that  she  is  very  sick,  nor 
do  I  thiiik  so.  Oh,  no  !  good  nursing,  such  as  she  gets  from  her 
mother  and  yourself,  will  bring  her  safely  through." 

"  I  trust  so,  but  I  am  very  anxious;  and  I  could  not  help  sigh- 
ing just  now  when  1  saw  you  smile  in  anticipation  of  her  delight, 
for  the  thought  flashed  upon  me  then  that  Agnes  might  perhaps 
never  touch  those  keys  again." 

"Oh,  Julia  !"  he  exclaimed,  "don't  talk  so.  The  thought  of- 
Eva's  departure  has  depressed  you,  and  this  makes  you  take  a 
gloomy  view  of  Agnes's  case.  But  cheer  up,  now !  She  will 
yet,  for  many  a  year  to  come,  make  this  old  Hall  tremble  with 
that  deep  pedal  bass.  Come,  get  your  cloak  and  bonnet,  and 
let  us  take  a  walk.  You  have  stayed  in  that  sick-room  so  much, 
and  have  withal  been  so  troubled,  that  you  are  almost  sick  your- 
self.    Air  and  exercise  will  do  you  good." 

Uncle  John  was  determined,  if  possible,  to  divert  her  thoughts 
both  from  Agnes  and  Eva,  and  so  he  said,  cheerfully,  as  they  left 
the  house  : 

"  Tell  me  when  you  heard  from  Charles,  and  what  he  says  of 
himself  and  his  affairs.  Time  was,  Julia,  when  you  were  de- 
pendent upon  me  for  tidings  from  him,  but  now  the  case  is  re- 
versed, and  if  I  want  to  hear  from  him  I  must  come  to  you." 

Their  talking  was  all  of  Charles ;  but  Julia,  unlike  Eva,  lived 
not  altogether  in  the  future,  and  much  of  the  present  mingled 


CAMERON    HALL.  447 

both  in  her  thoughts  and  conversation.  She  viewed  things  in 
their  true  relations,  and  saw  them  as  they  really  were.  She 
neither  ignored  nor  forgot  the  danger  and  uncertainty  around 
her,  but  fully  realized  that  she  must  encounter  much  anxiety,  sus- 
pense, and  perhaps  much  actual  sorrow,  before  that  goal  to  which 
she  looked  forward  could  be  reached.  The  only  condition  on 
which  she  had  consented  to  marry  Charles  in  the  existing  state 
of  things  involved  so  much  of  suffering  and  danger  to  him,  that 
she  never  allowed  herself  to  think  of  it ;  so  that  when  she  thought 
of  happiness,  it  was  always  as  if  she  were  looking  across  a  black, 
yawning  chasm,  which  must  be  crossed,  before  the  pure  and 
peaceful  light  could  be  reached  on  the  other  side.  She  struggled 
to  attain  a  patient  serenity,  a  trusting  hope,  but  beyond  this  she 
did  not  aspire.  Sometimes  that  serenity  was  ruffled  by  deep 
anxiety,  and  that  hope,  losing  for  the  moment  its  supporting, 
anchor-like  power,  was  swayed  to  and  fro  by  torturing  fears ;  but 
Julia  was  a  Christian,  and  therefore  always  patient  and  submissive, 
and  generally  even  now  wore  that  expression  of  calm,  quiet  cheer- 
fulness which  was  her  wont. 

"  When  will  you  see  Charles  again  ?"  asked  Uncle  John. 

"Ah,  sir  1  I  do  not  know.  There  is  no  definite  time  in  the 
future  for  that  pleasure.  We  will  not  see  each  other  often,"  she 
added,  with  a  sigh,  ''while  the  war  lasts,  even  if  that  should  be 
for  years.  We  have  agreed,  Uncle  John,  not  to  tempt  each  other 
away  from  duty,  and  except  in  some  great  and  unexpected  emer- 
gency, I  shall  never  ask  him  to  leave  his  post  to  come  to  me  for 
a  single  day.  He  will  come  whenever  he  can  do  so  consistently 
with  his  duty,  and,  fortunately  for  my  peace,  I  have  confidence 
enough  in  him  to  believe  that  he  will  never  either  desert  his  post 
or  forget  me." 

"A  priceless  faith,  my  daughter,  nor  is  it  misplaced.  I  be- 
lieve that  the  end  will  prove  that  you  have  not  overestimated 
him..  I  wish,"  he  added,  kindly,  "that  you  two  children  could 
have  your  happiness  sealed  as  speedily  as  Willie  and  Eva.  This 
long  waiting  will  be  wearisome  to  both  of  you,  and  Charles  will 
not  bear  it  as  patiently  and  submissively  as  you  will." 

"  Perhaps  nut,  but  bear  it  he  must,  in  some  fashion  or  other, 
because  it  is  right,  and  he  has  promised  to  do  it.  He  understands, 
Uncle  John,  that  unless  he  is  ill  or  wounded,  and  requires  a  wife's 
nursing  care,  we  are  not  to  be  married  during  the  war.  He  ac- 
quiesced in  my  decision,  and  I  do  not  think  will  ever  propose  that 
it  should  be  reversed." 

They  walked  in  the  grove  until  it  was  quite  dark,  and  the  keen, 
cold  air  sent  them  back  to  the  house,  where  they  went  imme- 
diately to  Agnes's  room. 


448  CAMERON    HALL. 

« 

Languor  and  exhaustion  were  plainly  written  upon  her  face, 
and  when  Uncle  John  asked  how  she  felt,  she  answered, 
wearily : 

"  Tired,  Uncle  John, — oh  !  so  tired  !" 

"  She  is  tired  of  her  position," said  her  mother,  "and  I  cannot 
remedy  it.  I  took  her  up  just  now  and  seated  her  in  the  arm- 
chair, but  that  exhausted  her;  then  I  propped  her  with  pillows, 
but  that  was  not  comfortable;  and  now  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
for  her." 

"But  I  do,"  said  Uncle  John,  lifting  her  gently  in  his  arms 
and  seating  himself  before  the  fire  in  a  large  rocking-chair. 
"  Now,  spread  a  blanket  over  her,  and  I  will  hold  her  so  com- 
fortably that  she  will  be  asleep  in  five  minutes." 

The  change  of  position  was  a  great  relief,  and  nestling  her 
head  against  Uncle  John's  shoulder,  Agnes  verified  his  predic- 
tion, and  in  a  few  minutes  was  fast  asleep.  Julia  stole  out 
quietly,  and  the  mother  and  Uncle  John  silently  watched  the 
child.  The  room  was  dark,  except  as  it  was  now  and  then 
lightened  by  a  fitful  blaze  of  the  decaying  fire,  whose  uncertain 
glare  only  served  to  sharpen  the  outlines  of  the  thin  face,  and  to 
deepen,  for  the  instant,  tlie  fever-glow  upon  the  cheeks.  The 
quick  eye  of  the  mother  detected  in  an  instant  the  gentle  touch 
which  Uncle  John  laid  upon  Agnes's  wrist,  and,  with  her  anx- 
ieties awakened  in  a  moment,  she  asked,  quickly : 

"Has  she  more  fever  ?" 

The  pulse  bounded  as  he  had  never  felt  it  before,  and  with 
difficulty  controlling  his  voice  and  his  countenance,  he  replied, 
calmly  : 

"  Her  pulse  is  not  so  quiet  as  it  was  this  morning.  She  has 
more  fever  than  she  had  then." 

And  then,  afraid  of  more  searching  questions  which  he  did  not 
wish  to  answer,  he  added  : 

"  We  must  not  talk  now.     Let  her  sleep  if  she  can." 

No  more  was  said,  and  they  kept  their  silent  watch ;  Uncle 
John  finding  himself  unwillingly  partaking  of  Julia's  fears,  and 
Grace  oppressed  with  the  same  vague,  undefined  dread,  which 
had  tortured  her  ever  since  the  first  morning  that  Agnes's  hands 
had  fallen  listlessly  at  her  side  before  the  organ.  Presently  Mr. 
Cameron  joined  the  silent  group,  and  seating  himself  beside  Uncle 
John,  looked  first  at  the  child,  then  at  the  mother,  and  then  at 
Uncle  John,  as  if  with  a  vain  hope  of  reading  something  in  their 
faces  which  might  contradict  his  own  anxious  fears. 

They  sat  thus  for  some  time,  when  Agnes  suddenly  awoke  with 
a  start  and  a  shudder,  and  asked,  in  a  frightened  tone : 

"Where  am  I?" 


CAMERON    HALL.  449 

"In  Uncle  John's  arms,  my  daughter,"  he  replied,  clasping  her 
hand. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  must 
have  been  dreaming;  but  I  thought  that  I  was  in  such  a  cold, 
damp  place,  talking  to  Mr.  George." 

"Hush,  daughter!"  said  Uncle  John,  not  wishing  either  her 
thoughts  or  conversation  to  be  directed  in  that  painful  channel. 
"  Be  quiet  now,  and  go  to  sleep  again ;  you  did  not  finish  your 
nap." 

"  I  cannot,  Uncle  John  ;  I  am  wide  awake  now.  I  was  so 
frightened !  I  would  rather  not  go  to  sleep  at  all  than  to  have 
such  dreams.  I  never  dreamed  before  of  seeing  anything  ;  but  I 
actually  thought  that  I  saw  him,  and  that  was  what  frightened 
me  so." 

Uncle  John  could  plainly  feel  the  quick  throbbing  of  her  heart, 
and  fearing  the  effect  of  this  excitement,  he  tried  to  soothe  and 
quiet  her,  but  in  vain.  She  would  talk,  and  there  was  an  un- 
natural, nervous  hurry  in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  as  she  said : 

"  Poor  Mr.  George  !  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  him.  Do 
you  know,  Uncle  John  ?" 

"  I  have  never  heard  from  him,  Agnes,  since  we  left  Rich- 
mond." 

Her  mind  was  now  fixed  upon  Mr.  George,  and  with  childish 
pertinacity  she  pursued  her  questions  and  vain  conjectures,  as  to 
where  he  was,  and  if  he  had  made  friends  and  was  happier  than 
he  used  to  be.  Neither  her  mother  nor  Mr,  Cameron  spoke,  but 
received  in  silent  agony  every  stab  of  the  unconscious  child.  At 
last  she  started  up,  and  exclaimed,  hurriedly: 

"Mother  !    Uncle  John,  where  is  mother?    Is  she  here  ?" 

"Yes,  Agnes,"  she  answered,  taking  her  hand,  "your  mother 
is  here." 

"  Mother,  I  want  you  to  write  to  Mr.  George  for  me  now  this 
very  minute.  I  promised  to  do  it,  and  ought  to  have  done  it 
before.  I  am  afraid  he  will  think  that  I  don't  keep  my  promises. 
Will  you,  mother  ?" 

Grace  could  not  answer  a  word,  and  looked  ready  to  faint. 
Uncle  John  came  to  her  relief,  and  said : 

"It  is  night  now,  Agnes,  and  your  mother  is  so  tired  nursing 
you  all  day,  that  she  could  not  write  a  letter.  Wait  until  to- 
morrow, daughter,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  mother  is  too  tired  to  do  it  now.  But  will  you 
promise  to  write  to-morrow,  mother?" 

"  Wait  until  to-morrow  comes,  my  child,"  she  almost  gasped. 

"Agnes,"  said  Uncle  John,  "  if  you  are  well  enough  to-mor- 

38* 


450  CAMERON    HALL. 

row  to  tell  me  what  to  write,  I  will  write  a  letter  for  yon  to  Mr. 
George.  Won't  that  do  ?  Your  mother  is  not  able  to  do  it,  she 
has  too  much  to  do  for  you." 

"Yes,  that  will  do,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered,  satisfied  with 
the  promise. 

"And  now,  Agnes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  promised  to  gratify  you; 
you  must  do  something  for  me  in  return." 

"I  am  willing.  Uncle  John.     What  is  it?" 

"You  must  lie  still  and  not  speak  another  word,  and  try  to  go 
to  sleep." 

"  I  will  try,"  she  replied,  settling  herself  in  his  arms  and  lean- 
ing her  head  against  his  breast. 

Again  they  sat  a  long  time  in  silence.  After  awhile  Mr.  Cam- 
eron, thinking  she  was  asleep,  and  wishing  to  judge  of  her  fever, 
laid  his  hand  upon  one  of  hers  that  was  resting  upon  the  arm  of 
the  chair.  In  a  moment  she  passed  her  other  hand  rapidly  over 
his,  and  said : 

"This  is  Mr.  Cameron's  hand,  and  it  is  so  cool  and  pleasant. 
Uncle  John,  my  hands  and  ray  head  are  burning  up.  What 
makes  me  feel  so  hot  in  such  cold  weather  ?" 

"Because  you  have  a  fever,  Agnes.  You  are  sick,  and  the 
more  you  talk  the  worse  it  is  for  you ;  and  that  is  the  reason 
why  we  try  to  keep  you  quiet." 

"But,  Uncle  John,  I  must  do  something  when  I  am  awake. 
If  I  could  see,  I  would  lie  still,  because  then  I  could  look  around 
and  have  plenty  to  amuse  me  without  moving  or  speaking  a 
word  ;  but  now  it  is  so  lonely  to  lie  here  wide  awake  and  in  the 
dark,  and  not  even  talk.     Oh,  if  I  only  had  my  organ  1" 

"But,  Agnes,  you  could  not  play  upon  it  if  you  had  it.  You 
are  not  able  to  sit  up  now." 

"  Still,  Uncle  John,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  know  that  I  was 
near  it.  Sometimes  I  am  almost  sorry  that  I  came  to  the  Hall. 
It  is  true,  I  would  rather  be  sick  here  than  at  home,  because  I 
have  so  many  kind  nurses ;  but  I  am  sorry  that  I  left  my  organ. 
If  I  had  known  that  I  would  be  away  from  it  so  long,  I  would 
not  have  come." 

"How  would  you  like  to  have  it  here,  Agnes?" 

"I  wish  that  it  was  here;  but.  Uncle  John,"  she  added,  earn- 
estly, "please  don't  try  to  move  it." 

"  I  will  not,  Agnes.     It  is  already  here." 

It  needed  Uncle  John's  firm,  strong  grasp  to  keep  the  sick 
child  from  leaping  out  of  his  arms  upon  the  floor. 

"Already  here,  and  built  up  again,  and  ready  to  play  on?" 
she  exclaimed  in  delight. 

"Yes,  all  ready  to  play  on,  Agnes,  and  only  waiting  for  you 


CAMERON    HALL.  4')! 

to  get  well  enough  to  touch  those  pedal  notes  that  you  and  I 
love  so  well." 

It  was  a  pleasant  excitement ;  but  TJncle  John  knew  that  it 
was  not  less  dangerous  for  all  that.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  and  her 
cheeks  glowed,  and  her  heart  beat  quick  and  hard  ;  but  the  un- 
natural strens^ih  was  that  of  the  treacherous  fever  which  wasted 
and  consumed,  even  while  it  seemed  to  supply  power  and  energy. 
In  a  little  wliile  the  reaction  came,  and  she  sank  back  almost  life- 
less in  Uncle  John's  arms. 

"Send  for  the  doctor,"  he  whispered  to  Mr.  Cameron. 

The  physician  was  sent  for,  and  he  came  with  all  speed  ;  but 
it  seemed  to  the  anxious  watchers  that  they  waited  for  him  for 
hours.  He  said  nothing,  but  it  needed  no  words  to  express  the 
uneasiness  so  plainly  written  on  his  countenance  ;  and  when  he 
intimated  his  intention  of  spending  the  night,  the  satisfaction 
afforded  by  his  presence  was  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the 
conviction  of  the  danger  which  made  it  necessary.  That  was  a 
weary  night,  and  before  morning  Agnes  was  unconscious. 

To  Grace  and  Julia  this  result,  however  distressing,  was  not 
unexpected,  for  both  had  feared  it  from  the  beginning,  although 
they  scarcely  knew  why;  but  Eva  had  never  had  one  anxions 
thought  about  Agnes,  and  when  she  came  into  the  room  the  next 
morning  and  saw  her  lying  motionless,  with  the  ice  bound  upon 
her  head,  and  her  mother  sitting  beside  her  like  a  statue,  the  pos- 
sibility that  Agnes  might  die  flashed  upon  her  for  the  first  time, 
and  her  distress  was  augmented  by  the  suddenness  of  the  blow. 

The  day  wore  on ;  another  night  came,  but  there  was  no 
change.  Agnes  needed  nothing.  It  would  have  been  a  relief  to 
have  had  something  to  do ;  but  there  were  no  wants  to  be  sup- 
plied, no  pains  to  be  assuaged,  no  little  offices  of  gentleness  and 
love  which, "even  if  not  necessary,  are  yet  so  acceptable  to  the 
sick.  On  one  side  of  the  couch  sat  the  mother,  and  on  the  other 
was  the  grandfather.  Each  held  a  little  hand,  and  looked  with 
hopeless  distress  upon  the  child  whose  life,  however  necessary  to 
their  happiness,  they  were  powerless  to  retain.  All  day  and  far 
into  the  night  she  had  lain  as  motionless  as  the  dead ;  but  in  the 
depth  of  midnight  the  mother  felt  a  slight  tremor  of  the  hand  that 
she  held,  and  then  "it  was  suddenly  withdrawn  from  her  grasp. 
Mr.  Cameron  released  the  other,  and  both  wandered  feelingly 
over  the  coverlid,  as  if  arranging  the  stops  of  the  organ. 

"Agnes,  my  darling,"  exclaimed  her  mother,  "speak  to  me." 

The  child  heard  not;  and  presently  she  sang,  in  a  low  voice, 
her  hands  the  while  seeming  to  accompany  her  on  the  organ,  a 
simple  hymn-tune  to  the  words  which,  years  ago,  had  pictured  to 
her  infant  mind  her  first  bright  dream  of  heaven.    Mr.  Cameron's 


452  CAMERdN    HALL. 

tears  fell  fast,  as  in  the  deep  stillness  of  midnight  he  heard,  from 
the  lips  of  the  blind  child,  who  was  even  then  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  world  of  light : 

"No  midnight  shade,  no  clouded  sun, 
But  sacred,  high,  eternal  noon!" 

And  this  was  all.  She  knew  nothing  that  was  going  on  around 
her;  and  when  the  last  word  died  upon  her  lips,  she  was  again  in 
that  same  profound  and  dreamless  sleep  from  which  her  mo- 
mentary glimpse  of  light  and  heaven  had  awakened  her.  Earn- 
estly the  mother  watched  and  prayed  for  one  word  of  recognition, 
eagerly  she  listened  for  the  word  "mother,"  but  it  never  came; 
longingly  she  gazed  upon  the  sealed  lips,  and  hoped  that  if  she 
might  not  hear  the  sound,  she  might  at  least  see  them  move  as  if 
trying  to  pronounce  her  name.  But  she  longed  and  prayed  in 
vain.  The  weary  hours  dragged  on  heavily,  bringing  with  them 
neither  change  nor  hope. 

Night  waned,  and  the  cold,  gray  dawn  struggled  dimly  into  the 
room,  and  contended  with  the  flickering  glare  of  the  dying  night- 
lamp.  Then,  clear  and  bright  and  cloudless  rose  the  morning 
sun,  flooding  earth  and  sky  with  that  light  which  is  at  once  the 
glory  and  the  life  of  this  lower  world.  It  streamed  full  through 
the  window  upon  the  face  of  the  dying  child;  but  the  darkness 
that  veiled  her  eyes,  no  earthly  light  could  penetrate.  Plaintive 
and  weary  was  the  voice  which  said: 

"  Mother,  come  close,  and  let  me  touch  your  cheek.  Is  it 
very  dark  to-night?" 

"  The  night  is  gone,  my  darling,  and  it  is  bright,  glorious 
morning.     What  made  you  think  that  it  was  night?" 

"  Because  it  is  so  dark,  so  much  darker  than  it  ever  was  be- 
fore.    Oh,  mother,"  she  added,  with  a  shudder,  "  I  am  so  blind !" 

And  then  in  her  restless  tossing  she  murmured  the  words  of 
the  prayer  that  she  loved:  ''Lighten  my  darkness,  0  Lord;"  and 
deep  and  fervent  was  the  voiceless  Amen  in  the  mother's  heart. 

It  was  twilight.  Agnes  had  been  quiet  for  hours,  so  quiet 
that  Uncle  John  occasionally  felt  the  ebbing  pulse  to  see  if  life 
still  lingered.  All  at  once  she  opened  her  eyes  wide,  not  with 
the  dull,  vacant  stare  of  the  blind,  but  as  if  she  were  gazing  into 
the  infinite  depths.  Then  a  bright  smile  of  glad  surprise  and 
joy  lighted  up  her  face,  as  she  exclaimed : 

"  Mother,  I  am  not  blind  now  !  I  see,  oh !  I  see  the  glorious 
light!" 

And  with  the  word  "  light"  upon  her  lips,  the  earthly  night  of 
the  blind  child  passed  away  forever  in  the  light  of  eternal  and 
unclouded  day ! 

Her  ^'darkness  icas  hnhfened  now/" 


CAMERON    HALL.  453 


CHAPTER  XXYIII. 

Agnes  was  gone,  and  with  her  the  light  had  gone  out  in  her 
mother's  heart.  There  was  silence  now  in  Cameron  Hall.  The 
organ  was  silent:  there  was  no  longer  any  childish  touch  to 
awaken  its  chords.  The  mother's  room  was  silent:  there  was  no 
child  there  to  be  instructed  or  amused.  The  mother's  heart  and 
voice  were  silent:  the  business  of  her  life  was  done.  There  was, 
however,  no  overwhelming  grief,  no  sinking  down  in  hopeless 
despair.  Quietly  she  surrendered  her  last  comfort,  patiently  she 
submitted  to  the  sundering  of  her  last  tie. 

Nor  was  Agnes  only  missed  by  her  mother,  and  others,  to 
whom  she  was  scarcely  less  dear.  Joe  too  missed  her,  although 
he  could  neither  have  defined  his  feeling  nor  explained  its  cause. 
He  never  asked  for  her;  but  for  many  days  after  she  was  laid 
away  in  her  grave,  he  took  his  accustomed  place  at  the  organ, 
and  waited  hour  after  hour  for  her  to  come.  There  was  some- 
thing very  touching  in  this  patient  and  fruitless  waiting  of  the 
unconscious  idiot  for  the  return  of  one  who  could  never  come 
again;  and  as  he  stood  by  the  silent  instrument,  with  his  face 
turned  toward  the  door  by  which  he  expected  her  to  enter,  his 
whole  appearance  and  attitude  were  as  expressive  of  sorrow  as 
was  the  more  conscious  and  evident  grief  of  the  rest  of  the 
family.  He  seemed  to  miss  something,  to  want  something,  al- 
most to  hope  for  something,  but  he  could  neither  have  told  nor 
did  he  know  himself  what  it  was ;  and  when  hour  after  hour  had 
passed,  and  still  she  came  not,  he  would  go  away,  and,  resuming 
his  wandering  habits  of  old,  would  roam  all  day  over  the  planta- 
tion and  through  the  grove.  Repeated  disappointment  at  last 
taught  him  his  lesson,  and  he  ceased  to  go  to  the  organ,  and 
soon  he  learned  to  pass  it  by  with  his  accustomed  vacant  stare, 
as  if  he  had  never  known  its  use  nor  heard  its  tones,  and  the 
recollection  of  the  blind  child  soon  faded  entirely  away  from  the 
feeble  memory  of  the  idiot  boy. 

One  evening,  about  sunset,  Julia  went  into  Grace's  room.  She 
was  sitting  by  the  window  looking  out  upon  the  western  sky, 
where  the  sun  was  going  down  in  a  blaze  of  glory.  She  did  not 
hear  the  opening  door,  and  Julia  paused  upon  the  threshold  and 
looked  with  a  feeling  almost  of  awe  upon  that  same  expression, 
that  same  intent,  'penetrating  gaze  that  was  upon  Agnes's  face 


454  CAMERON    HALL. 

as  she  passed  away.     Presently  Julia  saw  a  "bright  smile,  and 
then  she  went  up  to  her,  and  asked,  gently: 

"  What  is  it,  Grace  ?     What  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"Of  Agnes,  Julia.  I  was  looking  at  that  blaze  of  light,  and 
thinking  how  she  once  longed  to  know  what  light  was.  Now 
that  sunshine,  glorious  as  it  seems  to  us,  is  as  darkness  to  what 
she  sees!  Oh,  Julia,  if  heaven  were  nothing  but  light,  it  would 
still  be  heaven  to  my  blind  child !" 

"  Then,  Grace,  you  are  willing  to  give  her  up?" 

"Willing,  Julia!  Is  the  mother  willing  to  have  her  child's 
eyes  unsealed  ?  Willing  to  open  her  prison  doors  and  send  her 
out  of  darkness  into  the  blessed  sunshine?  Willing  to  see  the 
long  shadows  of  a  hopeless  night  flee  before  the  rising  sun  ?  If 
so,  then  I  am  willing  to  give  up  Agnes,  and  not  willing  only,  but 
more  than  that.  I  am  glad,  so  glad  that  the  day  has  at  last 
dawned  upon  her !" 

"And  yet,  Grace,  you  seemed  to  cling  to  her  with  a  nervous 
grasp,  as  if  you  dreaded  losing  her  above  all  other  calamities." 

"And  so  I  did.  She  was  my  thought,  my  life,  my  light.  But 
the  fear  was  a  selfish  one,  and  now  that  she  is  gone,  I  can  rise 
above  my  own  sorrow.  I  forget  the  niorht  of  my  own  heart,  and 
the  darkness  of  my  own  life,  in  the  thought  that  where  she  is 
there  shall  be  no  night,  no  darkness!" 

Weeks  passed.  The  bleak  winds  of  March,  laden  with  the  last 
icy  breath  of  winter,  were  lulled,  and  the  soft  skies  and  genial  suns 
of  April  were  rapidly  clothing  the  earth  in  the  green  mantle  of 
resurrected  vegetation.  Eva  and  Willie  had  left  a  few  days  after 
the  death  of  Agnes,  and  the  weekly  letter  which  came,  full  of 
the  love  of  that  young  heart,  large  enough  and  warm  enough  to 
form  strong  new  ties  without  weakening  the  old  ones, — this,  to- 
gether with  the  letters  from  Walter  and  Charles,  were  the  only' 
variety  in  the  quiet  life  of  the  Hall.  Uncle  John  was  if  possible 
a  more  frequent  visitor  there  than  ever.  He  missed  his  daily 
visit  to  the  cottage,  and  quite  as  much  as  this  he  missed  the 
organ,  whose  deep  tones  he  was  accustomed  to  hear  as  he  passed 
along  the  streets,  and  for  which  he  still  frequently  found  himself 
involuntarily  listening.  Next  to  her  mother,  he  missed  Agnes 
more  than  any  one  else.  Mr.  Cameron  felt  in  the  child's  death 
the  bitterness  of  disappointment  in  having  a  coveted  treasure 
snatched  from  him  as  soon  as  he  had  possessed  himself  of  it;  but 
to  Uncle  John,  as  to  the  mother,  there  was  a  painful  vacuum, 
the  absence  of  something  to  which  he  had  long  been  daily  ac- 
customed, and  which  had  become  almost  as  much  a  part  of  his 
life  as  the  very  air  that  he  breathed.  When  he  and  Grace  were 
together,  Agnes  formed  their  only  theme  of  conversation.     They 


CAMERON    HALL.  455 

loved  to  talk  of  her ;  and  to  remember  her  music  was  like  its  own 
echo,  sweet  jet  sad,  a  pleasure  and  vet  a  pain  too,  because  the 
birth  of  the  echo  necessitates  the  death  of  its  parent-sound. 

It  was  late  in  April,  and  one  evening,  about  sunset,  Uncle 
John  and  Julia  were  sitting  upon  the  porch  reading  letters  from 
Charles  and  Eva.  They  were  both  quite  absorbed,  and  were 
startled  as  the  sound  of  the  organ  stole  out  upon  the  quiet  air. 
It  had  never  been  opened  since  Agnes's  death,  but  silent  and 
lonely  it  stood  a  sad  memorial  of  the  child  with  whom  it  was  so 
identified.  They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  then 
arose  simultaneously,  with  a  vague,  undefined  hope  of  realizing 
the  impossible,  and  finding  the  child  seated  there  as  she  used  to 
be.  But  it  was  only  her  mother,  who  had  been  drawn  there  from 
a  desire  to  be  near  Agnes,  and  a  sort  of  shadowy  idea  that  there, 
if  anywhere  on  earth,  the  spirit  of  the  child  would  love  to  linger. 
In  life  the  music  of  the  organ  had  been  the  medium  through 
which  she  expressed  her  feelings,  and  it  was  a  sweet  maternal 
fancy  which  now  imagined  that  it  might  still  be  her  voice  speak- 
ing to  her  mother  from  the  spirit-world.  Strangely  enough  she 
could  not  remember  the  last  strain  that  she  had  heard  Agnes 
play.  That  was  a  farewell,  and  in  her  heart  now  there  was  a 
•welcome  instead  of  a  farewell.  She  felt  as  if  she  and  Agnes 
were  now  united  after  a  long  separation,  and  the  strain  that  she 
played  was  the  one  in  which  the  child  had  poured  out  her  thanks- 
giving for  her  safe  return,  after  her  long  absence,  to  her  home 
and  her  mother.  Her  listeners  had  expected  a  dirge  for  the 
dead,  but  they  heard  instead  a  strain  as  bright  and  cheerful  as 
Agnes  ever  played  when  her  heart  was  lightest  and  happiest. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?"  was  the  expression  upon  both  faces  as 
they  entered  the  room,  though  neither  spoke.  Grace  interpreted 
the  look,  and  replied  : 

"Agnes  seems  very  close  to  me  now,  and  I  am  happy !" 

From  that  day,  whenever  the  mother  felt  most  lonely,  she  went 
to  the  organ,  and  it  became  to  her  a  companion  and  comforter. 
Much  of  the  music  that  Agnes  used  to  play  was  engraved  upon 
her  memory,  and  as  it  was  no  borrowed  harmony,  but  emphati- 
cally the  language  of  the  child's  own  heart,  no  wonder  that  the 
mother  felt  specially  near  her  when  she  was  at  the  organ. 

Time  passed  on,  and  spring  had  merged  into  summer.  The 
country  was  momentarily  quiet,  but  it  was  only  the  lull  that  pre- 
cedes the  storm.  The  two  great  armies  who  were  about  again 
to  make  a  battle-ground  of  Virginia  soil,  and  Richmond  their 
point  of  contention,  now  threatened  each  other,  but  had  not  yet 
ventured  upon  an  open  battle.  With  bitterness  intensified  by 
former  disappointment,  the  Xorth  was  now  more  determined  than 


456  ^        CAiMERON    HALL. 

ever  to  plant  tbe  stars  and  stripes  upon  the  Confederate  capital. 
For  months  she  had  prosecuted  her  plan  with  vigor  and  energy. 
Men  and  money  had  been  lavished  without  stint,  and  the  mar- 
shaled hosts  were  now  placed  under  a  leader  whose  name  alone 
was  considered  a  prestige  of  victory.  Satisfied  with  the  dis- 
astrous result  of  the  attempt  to  reach  Richmond  by  Manassas, 
General  MeClellan  determined  to  try  another  route,  and,  taught 
by  the  experience  of  his  predecessors  in  command  that  he  had  to 
contend  against  a  foe  neither  insignificant  nor  cowardly,  he  reso- 
lutely shut  his  ears  to  the  urgings  of  an  impatient  government 
and  the  clamors  of  a  captious  press,  and  refused  to  take  one  de- 
cided step  toward  the  grand  result  until  he  considered  success 
beyond  a  peradventure. 

Meanwhile  the  South  listened  calmly  to  the  boasting  threats 
of  overwhelming  numbers  and  speedy  annihilation,  and,  while 
straining  every  nerve  and  exerting  every  energy  to  meet  the 
coming  foe,  she  still  awaited  the  result  with  a  quiet  trust  and  a 
resolute  courage. 

And  now  the  heart  of  the  nation  stood  still  as  it  awaited  in 
breathless  suspense  the  tremendous  blow.  All  eyes  were  turned 
to  Richmond,  and  all  knew,  or  imagined  that  they  knew,  how 
bloody  and  desperate  would  be  the  impending  battle,  how  fearful 
and  determined  would  be  the  struggle  for  the  coveted  city. 

Hopedale  and  the  surrounding  country,  though  still  debatable 
ground,  was  not  occupied  by  either  army.  Every  soldier  belong- 
ing to  both  sides  was  at  the  front,  and  there  were  no  stragglers 
wearing  either  uniform,  to  remind  the  quiet  citizens  that  there- 
was  war  in  the  land. 

Just  at  this  time  Willie  and  Eva  returned.  The  joy  of  the 
latter  at  being  at  home  again  was  far  more  than  counterbalanced 
by  the  pain  of  approaching  separation  from  her  husband,  who, 
now  entirely  restored  to  health  and  strength,  was  on  his  way, 
full  of  animation  and  hope,  to  resume  his  soldier  life.  He  only 
allowed  himself  two  days  at  the  old  Hall,  so  full  of  pleasant 
memories  and  so  identified  with  the  one  great  happiness  of  his 
life;  and  on  the  morning  of  the  third,  true  to  her  promise,  with- 
out one  complaining  word,  without  one  expressed  wish  that  he 
might  stay  wiih  her  only  one  day  longer,  and  with  a  self-control 
that  she  had  never  attained  before,  his  young  wife  sent  him 

away. 

"Don't  forget  the  miniature,  Eva,"  he  said,  as  he  was  busy 
with  his  preparations  on  the  morning  of  his  departure.  "  Don't 
let  me  go  without  that." 

She  put  a  ribbon  through  the  little  gold  locket  and  fastened  it 

rouud  his  neck. 


CAMERON    HALL.  457 

"  Like  you,  and  yet  not  like  you,  Eva,"  he  said,  looking  long 
and  searchingly,  first  at  the  daguerreotype,  and  then  into  her 
face.  "It  has  your  features,  but  it  wants  the  expression,  the 
soul,  that  is  in  the  original.  However,  this  is  better  than  nothing, 
and  will  comfort  me  more  than  aught  else  could  do  except  your 
own  self," 

He  was  gone,  nor  was  there,  after  his  departure,  a  single  mur- 
mur or  a  complaint  of  the  hardship  of  separation ;  and  Julia 
looked  with  mingled  surprise  and  admiration  at  the  sister,  so 
lately  an  impulsive,  unrestrained  child,  now  a  self-controlled, 
submissive  woman. 

Weeks  passed  by,  but  brought  not  the  expected  battle.  The 
two  nations  were  weary  with  expectation,  and  while  they  dreaded 
the  bloody  fray,  they  were  at  the  same  time  surprised  and  disap- 
pointed at  the  unaccountable  delay.  But  at  length  the  tidings 
came.  Day  after  day  the  combat  raged,  and  the  telegraph  wires 
flashed  the  news  of  successive  battles  and  the  continuous  repulses 
of  the  Federal  army.  In  an  agony  of  hope  and  fear,  of  suspense 
and  dread,  the  nation  awajted  the  final  issue.  Thousands  crowded 
the  telegraph  offices  day  after  day,  first  to  hear  the  result  of  the 
last  battle,  and  then  with  sickening  fear  to  ask  the  price  of  vic- 
tory. But  not  until  it  was  all  over,  not  until  the  contest  for 
Richmond  had  been  for  this  time  also  abandoned,  did  the  wires 
begin  to  bring  their  messages  of  sorrow  and  of  joy,  and  then 
Uncle  John  brought  to  the  hearts  at  the  Hall,  worn  out  with 
waiting  and  watching,  the  blessed  tidings  of  the  safety  of  their 
loved  ones. 

A  few  days  after,  came  long  letters  from  Willie  and  Walter. 
Their  fearful  descriptions  of  the  scenes  of  blood  and  carnage 
through  which  they  had  passed  unhurt,  while  they  curdled  the 
blood  of  those  who  read  them,  at  the  same  time  awakened  a 
deeper  gratitude  for  the  mercy  which  had  spared  them  where  so 
many  others  had  fallen.  Charles  wrote  only  a  hasty  and  almost 
illegible  scrawl,  scribbled  with  a  pencil  in  the  hospital,  during 
one  of  the  brief  intervals  between  his  duties.  He  said  that  he 
had  work  enough  to  keep  him  busy  day  and  night  as  long  as  he 
could  bear  the  strain  and  fatigue,  but  he  promised  to  write  again 
the  first  leisure  moment. 

Three  weeks  then  passed  away,  bringing  several  letters  fi'om 
Walter  and  Willie,  but  neither  letter  nor  message  from  Charles. 
Julia  had  waited  until  the  days  had  lengthened  into  weeks,  and 
these  almost  into  a  month,  and  now  her  suspense  became  in- 
tolerable. She  did  not  express  her  fears  to  those  at  home,  and 
she  wrote  to  him  as  usual  with  no  reference  to  her  torturing 
anxiety,  and  only  alluding  to  his  silence  as  a  necessary  result  of 

39 


458  CAMERON    HALL. 

his  constant  occupation,  but  she  felt  all  the  time  well  assured  that 
this  could  not  satisfactorily  account  for  it. 

She  was  standing  one  evening  upon  the  porch  looking  out 
vacantly  and  absently  upon  the  lawn.  A  vehicle  drove  in  at  the 
gate,  but  she  did  not  notice  it,  for  poor  Julia  felt  now  that 
nothing  except  that  longed-for  letter,  which  did  not  come,  could 
excite  even  a  passing  interest  or  awaken  a  desire.  As  the  Tehicle 
a[)proached  the  house,  she  saw,  with  surprise,  that  Uncle  John 
was  seated  beside  the  driver,  and  then  all  at  once  an  undefined 
dread  seized  her.  Her  eyes  were  riveted  and  her  lips  were 
sealed,  and  she  neither  moved  nor  spoke,  but  with  a  strange  sort 
of  fascination  she  watched,  as  two  horseman  dismounted,  and, 
assisted  by  Uncle  John  and  the  driver,  lifted  out  of  the  carriage 
a  mattress,  on  which  was  extended  a  form,  wliose  wasted  features 
and  closed  eyes  convinced  her  that  it  was  only  Charles's  lifeless 
body  that  they  were  bringing  back  to  her. 

As  Uncle  John  passed  by,  he  cast  a  compassionate  glance 
upon  her  white  face  as  she  clung  to  the  column  for  support,  and 
when  he  had  deposited  his  burden  in  ^he  house,  he  returned  to 
her,  and  without  a  question  being  asked  or  a  word  of  explanation 
oflered,  he  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  said,  sadly: 

"He  is  still  alive,  my  daughter." 

He  then  led  her  to  Charles's  couch.  She  could  not  tell  whether 
it  was  sleep  or  exhaustion  or  unconsciousness,  but  he  neither 
moved  nor  opened  his  eyes,  as  kneeling  beside  him  she  held  his 
hand  in  a  convulsive  grasp,  until  at  last  he  was  so  xeTy  quiet 
that  her  heart  stood  still  with  the  thought  that  perhaps  he  might 
be  already  dead.  But  there  was  still  a  feeble  pulse,  and  a  gentle 
breathing,  but  beyond  this  not  another  sign  of  life.  When  the 
physician  came,  Julia  saw,  with  a  shudder,  that  well-remembered 
expression  which  his  face  had  worn  when  he  came  that  last  night 
into  Agnes's  sick-room.  She  watched  beside  him  all  night,  and 
the  next  morning,  when  her  father  and  Uncle  John  insisted  that 
she  should  take  a  few  hours'  rest,  she  begged  that  she  might  be 
allowed  to  remain,  but  at  last  yielded  to  their  positive  commands, 
after  having  exacted  a  promise  that  if  any  change  should  take 
place,  she  should  be  immediately  summoned.  She  went  to  her 
room,  but  neither  to  sleep  nor  to  rest.  Every  noise  and  every 
footstep  that  passed  her  door  sent  a  thrill  through  her  heart,  and 
she  felt  that  it  was  a  mistaken  kindness  that  had  banished  her 
from  that  room. 

She  had  been  gone  a  long  time  when  Charles  awoke  from  his 
stupor,  and  looked  nronnd.  His  eye  wandered  all  over  the  room, 
and  rested  first  upon  Mr.  Cameron  and  then  upon  Uncle  John, 
but  there  was  no  recognition.    There  was  evidently  a  painful  but 


CAMERON    HALL.  459 

an  unsaccessful  effort  to  think  and  to  recollect,  and  then,  without 
seeming  conscious  that  he  was  asking  a  question,  and,  indeed, 
without  apparent  volition,  he  murmured  almost  iuaudibly : 

"Where  am  I?" 

Mr.  Cameron  bent  over  the  couch  so  that  he  might  see  him 
distinctly,  as  he  answered  : 

"You  are  at  Cameron  Hall,  Charles, — Julia's  home." 

There  was  a  momentary  gleam  of  intelligence  in  the  eye  as  if 
he  understood,  but  it  was  gone  in  an  instant.  The  mind  refused 
to  act,  and,  with  a  heavy  sigh  of  weariness,  and  an  expression 
of  pain  upon  his  face,  he  closed  his  eyes  again,  ani  sank  into  his 
former  stupor. 

The  physician  had  watched  him  with  painful  and  eager  interest, 
but  when  he  saw  the  eyes  close  again,  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  of 
disappointment  and  ^orrow : 

"  I  hoped  that  this  was  the  crisis,  and  that  he  was  about  to 
rally.  If  he  cannot  be  aroused  from  this  stupor  before  midnight, 
I  am  afraid  that  he  will  then  sink  rapidly." 

"  If  that  be  so,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  "  I  will  not  keep  Julia 
away  any  longer.     Poor  daughter  !  poor  daughter  !" 

He  went  to  her  room,  and  as  soon  as  she  saw  him,  Julia,  whose 
nerves  were  strung  to  the  highest  pitch  of  excitement,  sprang  up, 
ajjid  with  a  stifled  scream  seized  her  fatlier  and  clung  to  him  for 
support.  She  asked  no  question,  but  looked  inquiringly  at  him, 
and  stood  trembling  and  shivering. 

"  He  is  no  worse,  my  daughter,"  Mr.  Cameron  hastened  to  say, 
"but  I  have  come  to  take  vou  back  to  him." 

"  Send  for  Mr.  Derby,  papa,"  was  her  only  reply. 

Her  father  went  out  to  do  it,  and  she  returned  to  Charles's 
room. 

There  was  no  sleep  that  night  at  Cameron  Hall.  Physician 
and  minister,  as  well  as  those  more  nearly  interested,  watched  in 
anxious  suspense  as  hour  after  hour  dragged  wearily  by,  and  the 
dreaded  time  approached  when  the  doctor  had  said  that  his  fate 
would  probably  be  sealed. 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  his  eyes  opened  again,  and  this 
time  they  rested  first  on  Julia's  face,  and  were  riveted  there.  At 
first  it  was  a  vacant  stare,  but  gradually  her  image  seemed  to  im- 
press itself  upon  his  mind,  and  then,  as  if  doubtful  whether  or 
not  he  was  awake,  he  said : 

"Julia!" 

She  pressed  a  kiss  upon  his  fevered  lips,  as  she  answered  ; 

"Charles!" 

This  was  enough,  and,  quite  contented,  his  eyes  were  closiiig 
again,  when  the  physician  whispered  anxiously  : 


460  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  Keep  him  awake.  Don't  let  him  siuk  into  that  stupor  again. 
Everythiug  depends  upon  it." 

Yigorously  and  faithfully  they  worked  under  the  physician's 
directions,  until  at  last  their  efforts  were  crowned  with  success, 
and  Charles  was  thoroughly  awake  and  conscious.  He  asked  no 
questions  :  there  was  no  expression  of  surprise  upon  his  face  at 
finding  himself  at  Cameron  Hall,  but  his  eye  glanced  from  one 
to  the  other  with  unmistakable  satisfaction,  and  finally  rested  upon 
Julia  with  unutterable  tenderness. 

He  had  been  lying  so  for  two  hours.  Julia  was  sponging  his 
face  and  hands  with  ice-water,  and  he  had  been  for  some  time 
looking  intently  at  her,  but  had  never  spoken  one  word  to  her. 

"Julia,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "listen." 

She  bent  down  to  listen  to  the  feeble  voice  which  said  : 

"  I  am  about  to  die.     Will  you  do  something  for  me  ?" 

"Yes,  Charles,"  she  whispered,  "anything  to  comfort  you." 

"Let  me  leave  you  my  name  ;  let  me  die  your  husband.  You 
promised  it.     Will  you?" 

"  I  will,"  she  answered. 

She  explained  his  wishes  to  her  father,  and  said : 

"May  I,  papa?     I  am  his  wife  already  in  all  but  the  name." 

"Yes,  my  daughter,"  he  answered.     "If  it  will  comfort  either 
_  of  you  I  cannot,  under  the  circumstances,  object." 

"Doctor,"  she  whispeied,  "will  it  injure  him?  Will  it — will 
it  hasten  his  end  ?" 

"  ^0,  Julia,  I  do  not  believe  that  it  will." 

That  was  a  strangely  solemn  wedding  in  the  depth  of  midnight 
at  Cameron  Hall.  The  bridal  and  the  grave  were  in  startling 
proximity,  and  instead  of  smiling  faces  and  a  festive  scene,  there 
were  tearful  eyes  and  aching  hearts  and  hushed  voices,  for  the 
.  young  girl  who  knelt  in  crushing  sorrow  by  that  couch  was  about 
to  become  a  bride,  only  that  she  might  have  the  sad  privilege  of 
mourning  as  a  widow.  There  was  a  meaning,  a  present  signifi- 
cance in  the  words,  "until  death  us  do  part," such  as  they  seldom 
bear  when  uttered  by  the  strong,  manly. voice  of  the  self-reliant 
bridegroom,  who,  full  of  life  and  strength,  feels  himself  able  to 
redeem  his  promise  to  love,  cherish,  aud  protect.  aSow  Death 
seemed  to  stand  just  before  him ;  indeed,  he  appeared  already  to 
have  laid  his  grasp  upon  him,  and  Charles  thought  with  a  bitter 
pang  of  the  ties  sundered  almost  with  the  breath  that  formed 
them;  of  the  life  surrendered  just  as  it  became  immeasurably 
valuable. 

Her  promise  was  fulfilled,  and  on  the  threshold  of  the  grave 

J  Julia  had  become  Charles  Beaufort's  wife.     The  solemn  wedding 

over,  they  resumed  their  sad  and  quiet  watch,  looking  with  aux- 


CAMERON    HALL.  461 

ious  earnestness  into  the  doctor's  face  whenever  he  felt  the  pulse, 
and  responding  with  a  sigh  of  relief  as  they  read  there  that  the 
patient  had  not  yet  begun  to  sink.  All  night  long  he  lay  calm 
and  motionless,  but  perfectly  conscious,  with  his  hand  resting -con- 
tentedly in  Julia's  nervous  grasp.  At  daylight  the  doctor  arose 
and  motioned  Mr.  Cameron  to  follow  him.  Julia  started  in 
alarm,  but  when  she  looked  at  him,  she  saw  something  in  his  ex- 
pression which  completely  reassured  her. 

"  The  crisis  is  over,  sir,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Cameron,  when  they 
were  out  of  hearing  of  the  sick-room.  "  With  careful  nursing, 
and  without  a  relapse,  he  will  probably  get  well." 

**  Thank  God  1  Thank  God  for  Julia's  sake  !"  was  the  father's 
earnest  response. 

He  then  went  back  to  the  door  of  Charles's  room  and  beckoned 
to  Julia.  When  she  came  out  he  led  her  into  her  own  room  and 
shut  the  door;  then  putting  his  arm  around  her,  he  drew  her  close 
up  to  his  heart,  but  his  trembling  voice  could  only  say  : 

"He  is  safe,  my  daughter." 

There  was  no  need  to  shut  the  door  so  that  Charles  might  not 
hear  her  cry  of  joy.  She  said  not  one  word,  but,  sinking  upon  her 
knees,  her  overcharged  heart  found  its  first  relief  in  a  flood  of 
silent  tears,  and  her  father  left  her  still  kneeling  and  thanking 
God  that  she  was  not  that  moment  a  widow. 

Charles's  return  to  life  was  almost  like  a  recall  from  the  grave, 
and  the  gradual  recovery  of  his  faculties  seemed  rather  like  a 
resurrection  of  them  from  actual  death  than  an  awakening  from 
a  temporary  suspension.  It  was  several  days  before  he  asked  a 
question,  and  there  was  something  so  like  apathy  in  his  speech- 
less, motionless  quiet,  that  Julia,  while  she  C€uld  not  but  rely 
upon  the  doctor's  assurance  that  he  was  doing  well,  still  felt  a 
half-defined  dread  that  all  could  not  yet  be  right.  Had  she  real- 
ized how  near  extinction  the  vital  spark  had  been,  she  would  not 
have  wondered  that  it  should  still  have  trembled  and  flickered, 
before  it  could  again  spring  up  into  the  clear,  unwavering  flame 
of  a  recovered  life. 

Julia  had  watched  and  nursed  day  and  night  for  a  week.  Xone 
could  take  her  place,  and  Charles  was  so  weakened  in  mind  and 
body  that  he  did  not  now  see  what,  at  another  time,  would  have 
caused  him  great  anxiety.  He  did  not  seem  to  remember  that  she 
could  be  wearied,  and  he  was  always  restless  and  unhappy  when  she 
was  out  of  sight.  The  doctor  had  insisted  so  much  upon  quiet,  and 
the  absence  of  all  excitement,  that  when  Julia  saw  how  unwilling 
he  was  for  her  to  leave  him,  no  entreaties  could  persuade  her  to 
take  any  rest.  Medical  skill  and  careful  nursing  had  effected 
much  for  him  during  the  past  week,  and  though  still  entirely 

39* 


462  CAMERON     HALL. 

prostrate,  yet  the  disease  was  subdned ;  but  care  and  anxiety, 
sleepless  nights  and  days  of  toil,  had  left  their  impress  upon 
Julia. 

The  sun  had  set  after  a  parching  August  day,  and  she  threw 
open  all  the  blinds  to  admit  the  pleasant  evening  breeze.  As  &he 
stood  by  the  western  window,  louking  out  upon  a  magnificent 
sky,  the  light  fell  clearly  and  distinctly  upon  her  face,  and  Charles 
saw,  for  the  first  time,  how  wan  and  wearied  she  looked. 

"  Come  here,  Julia,"  he  said. 

She  sat  down  in  her  chair  by  his  couch,  but  he  said  : 

"  Not  there.     Sit  here  close  by  me.     I  want  to  look  at  you./' 

She  sat  down  on  the  bedside,  and  he  gazed  earnestly  upon  her 
face,  so  pale  and  tired  looking, 

"  You  are  worn  out,"  he  said,  "  and  I  have  done  it.  How  long 
have  I  been  here  ?" 

"Just  a  week." 

"Who  has  nursed  me  all  that  time, — you?" 

"Everybody  has  done  something  for  you,"  she  answered,  eva- 
sively. 

"How  many  nights  have  yon  stayed  with  me?" 

"I  have  been  with  you  every  night." 

"And  how  many  days  have  you  been  in  this  room  ?" 

"Every  day  since  you  came." 

"Now,  Julia,"  he  said,  with  something  of  his  old  earnestness 
and  decision,  "  why  did  you  do  this  ?  Why  wear  yourself  out  in 
doing  for  me  what  another  might  have  done,  if  not  so  well  as 
you,  at  least  well  enough  ?  You  have  done  wrong,  Julia,"  he 
said,  decidedly,  "very  wrong." 

"And  you  are  doing  worse,"  she  answered,  "to  become  excited 
about  it.  The  doctor  insists  upon  your  being  kept  perfectly 
quiet,  and  physicians  and  nurses,  you  know,"  she  added,  smiling, 
"must  be  obeyed.     So  I  positively  prohibit  another  word." 

"  But  I  must  and  will  speak,  Julia,  when  I  see  you  looking  as 
you  do  now,  and  know  that  I  have  caused  it.  If  physicians  and 
nurses  must  be  obeyed,"  he  added,  with  a  wan  smile,  "  husbands 
must  be  too.     That  was  a  part  of  your  vow," 

"And  I  am  ready  to  fulfill  it  this  moment  if  you  will  only  be 
quiet.  I  will  agree  to  do  anything  if  you  will  not  talk  any  more. 
I  am  so  much  afraid  of  a  return  of  fever." 

"  Then  promise  not  to  stay  in  this  room  another  night  until  I 
give  you  permission." 

"  Yery  well,"  she  answered,  "I  consent  if  it  will  satisfy  you. 
You  are  mistaken,  however,  as  to  the  cause  of  my  appearance. 
Distress  and  anxiety  leave  a  more  painful  impress  upon  the  face 
than  bodily  weariness.    It  is  grief  and  suspense  that  you  see,  not 


CAMERON    HALL.  463 

fatigue.     However,  I  will  obey  your  commands.     I  will  not  nurse 
you  another  night  until  you  give  me  permission." 

When  she  came  in  next  moroing,  she  still  looked  so  weary  and 
haggard  that  he  positively  refused  to  allow  her  to  do  anytliinff 
gr  him  but  making  her  seat  herself  in  the  arm-chair,  he  sent  for 
-bva,  and  asked  her  to  relieve  her  sister  that  day 
,  ,  'T;^^^^  ^  ^^'^jd  gladly  have  done  long  ago,"  she  answered, 
It  sister  would  have  consented,  but  she  said  it  was  a  privilege 
and  a  pleasure  that  she  could  not  resign  to  another  " 

Eva  proved  herself  so  good  a  nurse  that  Charles  told  her  that 
skm  ^"^"^^^"^  ^^"^  ^^^^^^'  ^"^  ^^^^^  w^ere  she  learned  her 

"It  does  not  require  much  skill,"  she  answered.    "It  only  needs 
to  be  very  much  interested  in  the  patient  to  be  a  good  nurse  " 

Ihat  is  a  mistake,  Eva,"said  Uncle  John.  "  I  was  very  much 
interested  both  in  Willie  and  Charles,  but  I  could  not  have 
nursed  them  as  you  girls  did.  I  think  that  to  be  an  efficient 
nurse,  quiet  and  yet  active,  attentive  yet  not  officious,  is  one  of 
the  most  valuable  talents  which  a  man  or  woman  can  have,  and 
one  with  which  comparatively  few  are  gifted.  And,  Eva,  since 
Charles  says  that  you  have  proved  yourself  such  a  nur-se  to-day 
see  here, — here  is  your  reward  I" 
^^  She  sprang  up,  and  seizing  the  letter  eagerly,  tore  open  the  en- 

"  Charles  "  said  Julia,  "you  must  dismiss  your  nurse  now     She 
caMot  read  that  letter  anywhere  except  by  the  side  of  Willie's 

1^' Oh,^yes  I  can,"  said  Eva.     "  I  can  read  it  here  very  well  " 
JNo,    said  Julia,  "there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  read 
It  there  as  you  always  do.     Charles  can  spare  you  very  well  now 
ana  i  can  wait  on  him  while  you  are  gone."  ' 

''  Yes,  my  little  sister,"  he  said,  "go  read  your  letter,  and  when 
you  have  done,  come  back  and  teU  us  the  news  from  Wiilie  " 

Eva  hurried  down  stairs  with  her  treasure,  and  after  she  was 
gone.  Uncle  John  said  : 

"  Jhat  child  has  disappointed  me  very  much.     I  declare,  Julia 
She  bears  her  separation  with  as  much  womanly  fortitude  as  yoJ 
yourself  could  do."  ^ 

"Yes,  sir  "  she  answered,  "she  is  very  patient  and  submissive, 
and  I  sometimes  wonder  if  she  can  be  the  same  impetuous  child 

«nUi.'     ^^l  ^'  ^^^  ^»?-     ^^^  y^^"  '^^  ^dded,  with  a  sigh, 
a   hough  she  is  so  lovely  and  gentle,  and  the  discipline  of  the 
past  few  months  has  given  strength  and  stability  to  her  character, 
yet  Uncle  John,  I  sometimes  find  myself  longing  for  the  gay 
frolicsome  child,  unconscious  of  care  and  unacquainted  with  sor- 


464  CAMERON    HALL. 

row,  who  used  to  make  the  old  Hall  ring  with  her  gay  laugh,  and 
resound  with  her  rushing  step.  Now  she  is  as  quiet  as  I  am. 
Poor  child  !"  she  said,  thoughtfully  and  sadly,  "  whenever  I  look 
at  her  I  seem  to  see  a  shadow  over  her." 

"  Now,  Julia,"  exclaimed  Uncle  John,  "  I  am  beginning  to  lose 
my  patience  with  you.  It  is  only  of  late  that  I  have  ever  known 
you  to  indulge  such  gloomy  fancies.  Now,  I  don't  know  anybody 
whose  future  wears  a  brighter  aspect,  and  is  more  full  of  promise 
than  that  child's." 

"That  is  true,  sir;  but  all  our  lives  are  overshadowed  now. 
I  sometimes  think-  that  it  would  be  better  if  none  of  us  expected 
a  great  deal  of  happiness,  since  there  are  so  many  causes  at  work 
around  us  to  disappoint  us.  But  Eva  and  Willie  expect  so  much, 
and  have  painted  their  future  in  such  glowing  colors,  that  a  sha- 
dow upon  their  life  would  be  deeper  and  darker  from  contrast 
with  their  anticipations."     • 

Grace  now  came  into  the  room,  and  Charles  calling  her  to  him, 
said : 

"  Julia  tells  me  that  you  too  play  on  the  organ.  Will  you  do 
so  for  me  now  ?    It  will  be  a  sweet  reminder  of  Agnes." 

Grace  acquiesced,  and  soon  the  music  came  rolling  with  trem- 
ulous sweetness  into  the  room.  To  an  invalid,  who  is  weak 
though  not  suffering,  and  who  is  quiet  and  languid,  there  is  no- 
thing so  soothing  as  low,  sweet  music  ;  and  organ  music,  so  deep, 
so  penetrating,  so  full  of  soul,  reaches  the  heart  as  none  other 
can,  through  the  dull,  heavy  ear  of  sickness. 

Charles  closed  his  eyes,  and  the  blind  child  seemed  to  be  before 
him,  and  he  felt  almost  as  if  the  strain  had  wafted  him  to  the 
spirit-land,  where  he  had  found  Agnes  again. 

When  it  ceased,  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  said,  regretfully: 

"  I  am  sorry  that  she  is  done.  I  never  realized  before  that 
sight  and  sound  are  so  closely  allied.  I  could  scarcely  have  felt 
nearer  that  child  or  have  seen  her  more  distinctly  if  she  had  been 
sitting  before  me.  What  a  sweet  memorial  of  a  friend  is  music  I 
How  pleasant  to  have  the  sweetest  of  earthly  sounds,  and  the  one 
nearest  akin  to  heaven,  to  bring  up,  as  in  a  moment,  the  form, 
the  feature,  the  expression  of  the  loved  one !" 

"And  such,"  said  Uncle  John,  "is  our  memory  of  the  blind 
child.  Not  more  instantly  or  more  correctly  does  the  sunlight 
daguerreotype  the  human  face,  than  does  a  sweet  strain  of  organ 
music  recall  Agnes.  Yes,  Charles,  it  is  indeed  a  pleasant  memory !" 

"Her  mother,"  said  Julia,  "loves  to  think  of  her  as  enjoying 
the  glorious  light  of  heaven.  Her  mind  dwells  upon  the  thought 
of  the  child  no  longer  blind,  in  a  world  of  unclo)lued  day ;  but  I 
love  best  to  think  of  our  little  musician  in  a  world  of  harmony 


CAMERON    HALL.  465 

without  discord  I  I  often  wonder  if  in  all  that  happy  throng 
there  is  one  spirit  which  will  drink  in  more  bliss  from  the  harmo- 
nies of  heaven  than  will  our  child-musician." 

"If  her  mother's  thoughts  of  Agnes  in  heaven,"  said  Uncle 
John,  "  are  identified  with  light,  her  memories  of  her  on  earth 
are  certainly  associated  with  music ;  for  A^nes  herself  scarcely 
loved  that  organ  more  than  Grace  does  now." 

"  Yes,"  said  Julia,  "and  she  is  sure  to  be  there  at  this  hour  of 
the  evening,  and  she  never  ceases  until  it  is  quite  dark.  Twilight 
and  music  are  now  identified  with  the  thought  of  Agnes." 

"No  inappropriate  reminder,"  said  Uncle  John,  "of  our  little 
blind  musician." 

"Surely,  Julia,"  said  Charles,  "Grace  cannot  have  been  at  the 
organ  every  evening  since  I  have  been  here  !  I  certainly  could 
not  have  been  so  stupid  and  apathetic  as  not  to  have  heard 
music !" 

"No,  Charles,  she  would  not  touch  it  for  fear  of  disturbing 
you." 

"  So  far  from  that,  I  have  never  been  so  sick  that  it  would  not 
have  been  soothing  and  pleasant.  I  wish  that  she  had  not 
stopped  now." 

"She  will  be  very  willing  to  resume  it,  Charles,"  said  Julia, 
"if  it  will  be  agreeable  to  you." 

"  Shall  I  ask  her  ?"  said  Uncle  John. 

"Yes,  if  you  please." 

Uncle  John  found  Grace,  as  Julia  had  said,  more  than  willing 
to  gratify  the  invalid.  Indeed,  it  had  been  a  self-denial  during 
the  past  week  to  keep  away  from  the  organ,  and  the  few  minutes 
that  she  had  just  spent  there,  seemed  like  a  hurried  glimpse  of 
Agnes,  which  she  was  only  too  glad  to  prolong.  Charles  thought 
that  she  was  playing  merely  to  give  him  pleasure,  but  she  was  in- 
deed talking  to  her  child ;  and  it  was  the  earnestness,  the  affec- 
tion that  she  threw  into  the  music,  which  gave  it  so  much  depth, 
so  much  pathos  in  the  ear  of  her  listener. 

When  she  had  ceased  to  play,  the  bright  moonlight  was  stream- 
ing full  into  the  room.  Neither  spoke  for  several  minutes  after 
the  music  had  died  away,  for  both  were  reluctant  to  break  the 
spell.     After  awhile,  Julia  said  : 

"Charles,  I  have  been  afraid  to  talk  to  you  or  to  ask  you  any 
questions ;  but  if  you  feel  strong  enough  now,  I  would  like  for 
you  to  tell  me  how  long  you  have  been  sick,  and  all  about  your- 
self until  you  were  brought  to  the  Hall." 

"  That  will  be  impossible,  for  I  remember  very  little  that  has 
happened  in  the  last  four  or  five  weeks.  I  was  taken  sick  about 
four  days  after  I  wrote  you  that  note,  when  the  battle  of  Malvern 


466  CAMERON    nALL. 

5ill  liad  virtnally  ended  the  siege  of  Richmond.  I  was  exhausted 
then,  for  I  had  been  constantly  busy  during  all  those  battles  ;  but 
the  horrible  duties  of  four  successive  days  and  nights  after  the  last 
one,  prostrated  me  in  mind  and  body.  I  have  little  recollection 
of  time,  but  I  do  not  think  that  I  could  have  been  sick  more  than 
two  or  three  days,  when  the  idea  seized  me  that  you  must  not 
know  it;  so  I  sent  for  Walter,  and  told  him  that  he  and  Willie 
must  not  mention  me  at  all  in  their  letters,  and  requested  that  if 
I  should  be  very  ill  I  might  be  sent  to  the  Hall  if  possible.  I 
wanted  to  die  here.  Since  then  I  really  remember  nothing  dis- 
tinctly until  our  solemn  marriage.  Then  I  was  thoroughly  awake, 
and  keenly  alive  to  feelings  of  the  most  intense  pleasure  and  the 
severest  pain.  You  can  never  know  the  strange  commingling  of 
bliss  and  agony,  of  hope  and  fear,  with  which  I  looked  first  upon 
you,  and  then  upon  the  death  apparently  so  near  and  so  inevitable. 
One  minute  to  feel  that  you  were  mine,  forever  mine,  and  the  next 
to  remember  that  that  forever,  so  far  as  earthly  possession  ex- 
tended, might  perhaps  be  comprised  in  a  few  brief  hours,  or  even 
moments ;  to  grasp  with  a  dying  hand  the  treasure  that  in  life  I 
had  so  coveted  and  hoped  for  and  longed  for, — oh,  Julia,  you  will 
never  know  what  I  suffered  that  night !  I  did  not  die  ;  but  in- 
deed I  passed  through  the  worst  of  death's  agonies.  But  even 
already  I  am  compensated  for  it  all ;  even  now,  while  I  lie  here 
weak  and  helpless  and  dependent  upon  you  for  the  care  and  pro- 
tection which  I  promised  to  give  you,  I  thank  God  for  the  sick- 
ness, the  suffering,  for  anything  that  has  given  you  to  me  now, 
a  present  possession,  instead  of  that  future  one  which  necessarily 
involved  uncertainty.  Now  no  chance  or  accident  can  sever  us. 
Ko  human  power,  no  earthly  circumstances  can  take  you  from 
me.  God  alone  can  separate  us  now.  We  belong  to  each  other : 
you  to  me  and  I  no  less  to  you.  I  will  guard,  protect,  and  love 
you ;  nay,  more,  I  wish  that  the  old  Saxon  word  of  the  English 
service,  with  its  strong,  deep  meaning,  had  been  retained,  and  I 
had  promised  to  *  worship^  you.  And  it  shall  be  your  part  to 
influence  and  encourage  me  to  do  what  is  right.  That  is  both 
the  duty  and  privilege  of  a  wife ;  and  of  all  the  women  that  I  ever 
knew,  you  seem  to  me  most  capable  of  doing  it." 

"  May  God  give  me  the  ability,  Charles,  as  He  has  given  me 
the  desire  to  be  to  you  all  that  you  expect  or  wish.  If  He  will 
enable  us  to  be  to  each  other  what  we  ought  to  be,  that  solemn 
service  the  other  night  will  prove  indeed  far  more  than  an  earthly 
tie,  and  its  influence  will  extend  beyond  that  grave  on  whose 
brink  we  seemed  then  to  be  standing.  Ours  was  indeed  a  solemn 
wedding.  May  its  peculiar  circumstances  help  us  to  realize  the 
solemnity  of  our  union,  our  promises,  our  obligations  1" 


i 


CAMERON     HALL.  467 

Eva  now  came  back  with  her  letter  crushed  tightly  in  her 
hand.  She  did  not  speak ;  and  when  Charles  called  her,  she  went 
np  in  silence  to  his  bedside.  The  moon  shone  full  upon  her  face, 
and  he  saw  traces  of  tears  in  her  eyes  and  upon  her  cheeks. 

"You  have  been  crying,  child,"  he  said,  tenderly ;  "  I  hope  that 
Willie  did  not  write  you  a  sad  letter  ?" 

"  He  wrote  cheerfully,  as  he  always  does,"  she  answered, 
meekly;  "but  sometimes  my  burden  gets  so  heavy  that  I  break 
down  under  it.  Generally,  however,  I  bear  it  very  well — at  least 
sister  thinks  so." 

"Indeed,  I  do,  Eva,"  said  Julia.  "When  Charles  leaves  me, 
I  expect  to  learn  a  lesson  of  patient  submission  from  you.  What 
does  Willie  say  ?    Anything  of  a  flying  visit  home  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  I  nothing  of  that  kind.  He  told  me  when  he  left, 
that  I  must  not  ask  that  or  even  think  of  it.  He  said  that  he  had 
been  so  many  months  away  from  his  post,  that  he  could  not  think 
of  asking  a  furlough  for  a  long,  long  time.  In  our  letters  we 
never  allude  to  his  coming  back,  except  in  some  of  our  bright 
pictures  of  peace.  Willie  and  I  live  in  the  future  now,  we  never 
speak  of  the  present  at  all.  All  our  happiness,  all  our  hopes  are 
garnered  up  in  the  future — the  blessed  future !" 

Julia  sighed,  as  she  always  did  now  when  she  heard  Eva  talk 
about  the  future;  and  as  Charles  looked  upon  the  young,  earnest 
face  before  him,  and  thought  of  the  "many  changes  and  chances 
of  this  mortal  life,"  which,  like  a  wide  gulf,  separated  her  from 
that  blessed  future,  as  she  called  it,  he  too  sighed  in  his  heart, 
although  his  lips  were  silent. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Charles's  recovery  progressed  gradually  though  steadily,  and 
Julia's  time  was  no  less  completely  occupied  after  he  had  passed 
the  dangerous  stage  of  his  illness  than  it  was  when  his  life  trem- 
bled in  the  balance.  All  her  ingenuity  and  resources  were  brought 
into  requisition  to  render  less  irksome  to  him  the  period  of  con- 
valescence, that  neutral-ground  between  sickness  and  health,  so 
trying  to  the  patience  of  the  invalid,  who  can  claim  neither  the 
indulgence  of  the  one  nor  the  immunities  of  the  other.  So  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly  had  the  events  of  the  past  few  weeks 
been  precipitated  upon  her,  and  so  closely  had  the  most  absorb- 


468  CAMERON    HALL. 

ing  duties  and  interests  imposed  by  her  new  ties  followed  upon 
their  formation,  that  Julia  scarcely  had  time  to  realize  that  she 
was  indeed  a  wife.  Charles's  awakening  to  a  full  sense  of  his 
happiness  had  been  during  the  gradual  process  of  recovery,  when 
by  degrees  he  had  become  accustomed  to  see  Julia  about  him, 
performing  those  gentle  offices  which  are  a  wife's  prerogative; 
but  her  complete  realization  did  not  come  until  those  ministra- 
tions were  ended,  the  object  of  them  restored  to  health  and 
strength,  and  his  departure  for  the  scene  of  his  labors  and  duties 
had  left  her  time  and  opportunity  to  think.  Then  she  knew  and 
felt  it  all.  Then  she  realized  that  she  had  indeed  taken  the 
final  step,  that  she  had  entered  beyond  recall  or  retreat  upon  the 
duties  and  affections  of  the  highest  and  holiest  earthly  state. 

Charles  was  gone,  and  exf^ept  that  in  Grace  Mr.  Cameron  had 
found  another  daughter,  and  the  girls  another  sister,  the  aspect 
of  the  Hall  was  such  as  it  had  been  in  years  gone  by,  with  this  only 
difference,  that  the  two  sisters  who  before  had  been  light-hearted 
maidens  were  now  anxious  wives,  and  with  all  their  efforts  not 
to  let  the  shadow  upon  their  own  individual  hearts  darken  the 
spirits  of  others,  they  could  not  quite  conceal  it.  None  knew 
the  effort  that  it  cost  Julia  to.be  serene  and  cheerful,  but  none 
could  help  seeing  with  pain  and  sympathy  Eva's  constant  but 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  hide  her  anxiety  in  her  own  bosom.  The 
nervous  grasp  with  which  she  seized  the  newspapers,  and  the 
trembling  haste  with  which  she  glanced  down  their  columns ;  the 
troubled  face,  the  start  of  alarm  at  every  unusual  noise  for  days 
after  she  had  read  the  ominous  paragraph,  "  a  battle  is  imminent 
and  may  be  expected  at  any  moment;"  and  withal  her  effort  to 
be  quiet  and  patient,  were  very  touching:  and  her  father  often 
turned  away  in  sorrow  from  looking  at  the  child  upon  whom  he 
felt  sure  that  the  burden  and  anxieties  of  life  had  been  laid  before 
she  was  old  enouq:h  to  bear  them. 

The  sisters  were  together  in  the  library.  For  several  days 
Eva  had  been  in  a  state  of  alarm  and  dread,  for  the  newspapers 
on  both  sides  were  clamoring  for  another  decisive  engagement 
during  the  early  autumn,  on  which  they  had  entered,  before  the 
rainy  season  should  have  put  an  end  to  all  military  movements. 
Some  unaccustomed  noise  in  the  yard  sent  the  blood  from  Eva's 
cheek,  and  pressing  her  hand  upon  her  heart  she  uttered  a  stifled 
scream.  Julia  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment,  and  the  first  touch 
of  a  gentle,  sisterly  hand  'broke  down  all  her  calmness,  and  the 
poor  child  laid  her  head  upon  Julia's  shoulder  and  cried  as  she 
used  to  do,  but  never  since  she  had  become  a  wife.  Julia  stroked 
her  hair  tenderly,  and  her  own  tears  fell  fast  upon  the  young 
head  bowed  before  her. 


/•■■' 


CAMERON     HALL.  469 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Eva  could  speak,  but  at  last  she 
said,  plaintively,  as  she  wiped  her  eyes: 

"  I  will  feel  better  now.  Oh,  sister,  you  don't  know  how  hard  I 
have  to  try  to  bear  my  burden  all  alone !  If  I  only  had  some- 
body to  help  me  1" 

''And  why  not,  my  poor  child,"  said  Julia,  compassionately, 
"why  not  come  to  me  as  you  used  to  do?  I  am  your  sister 
still,  Eva,  and  you  have  the  same  claim  upon  me  for  sisterly  sym- 
pathy and  support  as  you  had  before  we  were  married." 

"  I  cannot  have  the  heart  to  burden  you  with  my  troubles,"  she 
answered,  "when  yours  are  just  as  heavy,  and  besides,  sister,  your 
quiet  submission  makes  me  ashamed  to  confess  what  a  tempest  is 
raging  in  my  heart  all  the  time.  How  long,"  she  exclaimed,  pite- 
ously,  ''oh  !  how  much  longer  must  it  last?" 

Julia's  tears  flowed  now  for  Eva  as  they  seldom  did  for  her 
own  sorrow.     Presently  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  reproach : 

"Eva,  do  you  know,  darling,  that  I  think  you  are  doing  very 
wrong  ?" 

"How,  sister?"  she  asked,  quickly.  "Oh  if  you  only  knew 
how  very  hard  I  am  trying  to  do  right !" 

"  I  do  know  it,  child ;  but  you  have  a  mistaken  idea  of  what  is 
right,  and  are  doing  yourself  and  all  of  us  a  great  wrong.  You 
have  imposed  upon  yourself  a  restraint  for  which  you  are  un- 
fitted by  nature.  You  are  impulsive,  and  the  feelings  of  such  a 
temperament  must  have  a  vent;  otherwise,  like  smouldering  fires 
within,  they  will  burn  out  the  heart  and  life.  A  good  hearty  cry 
is  a  great  relief  to  you  now  as  it  always  was,  and  yet  instead  of 
thus  getting  rid  of  your  feelings  you  are  striving  all  the  time  to 
smother  them.  You  have  always  felt  better  when  you  brought 
your  troubles  to  me,  and  you  have  just  acknowledged  that  you 
longed  to  go  to  somebody  for  help  and  sympathy,  and  yet  you 
lock  up  all  your  anxieties  in  your  own  heart,  and  do  not  give  me 
the  privilege  of  sharing  them  or  comforting  you,  if  indeed  I  am 
able  to  do  it.  Yes,  Eva,  you  have  done  wrong  to  me  as  well  as 
to  yourself." 

"  Oh,  sister!"  she  exclaimed,  hastily,  "it  is  not  that  I  thought 
you  were  changed,  that  you  were  either  less  able  or  less  willing 
to  comfort  and  sympathize  than  you  used  to  be.  That  is  not  the 
reason  why  I  did  not  come  to  you.  It  was  only,  as  I  told  you 
just  now,  because  you  have  your  burden  too,  and  instead  of  adding 
to  yours  I  am  trying  to  learn  from  you  to  bear  mine  in  patience 
and  in  silence." 

"And  think  you,  Eva,  that  because  you  did  not  confess  it 
in  words  that  therefore  I  did  not  know  that  there  was  sorrow  in 
your  heart  ?     Think  you  that  I  have  yet  to  learn  to  interpret 

40 


470  CAMERON    HALL. 

your  restless  eye,  your  haggard  cheek,  your  languid  step  ?  Ah, 
no  1  I  can  read  you  too  well  for  that;  and  it  adds  no  little  to  my 
own  individual  sorrow  to  know  that  the  child  who  has  always 
leaned  upon  me  for  support  and  comfort  has  at  last  found  a 
trouble  which  she  cannot  or  will  not  bring  to  her  sister.  Surely, 
Eva,  you  have  not  yet  to  be  told  that  there  is  no  burden,  however 
heavy,  no  trial,  however  great,  that  will  so  absorb  me  in  my  selfish 
feelings  as  to  leave  no  room  in  my  heart  for  you  !" 

"But,  sister,"  she  said,  simply,  "I  am  trying  to  be  a  woman 
now.  Willie  told  me  to  do  it;  and  you  know  submission  and 
fortitude  belong  to  a  woman." 

"My  poor  little  child-woman!"  said  Julia,  smiling  sadly 
through  her  tears.  "  You  may  try  to  be  a  woman,  but  after  all 
you  will  still  be  a  child,  the  same  loving,  dependent,  trusting 
child  that  you  have  always  been,  and  God  forbid  that  you  should 
ever  cease  to  be  I  Xor  did  Willie  mean  that  you  should,  Eva. 
He  did  not  intend  that  you  should  be  unnatural,  lie  only  meant 
to  encourage  you  to  bear  what  he  knew  would  be  a  sore  trial  to 
your  young  heart,  a  heart  which  has  made  its  first  acquaintance 
with  anxiety  and  sorrow  through  its  great  yearning  love  for 
him." 

"  I  have  tried  too,  sister,  to  keep  all  my  trouble  to  myself  on 
papa's  account.  Indeed  everybody  seems  to  have  now  just  as 
much  individual  sorrow  as  they  can  bear.  While  your  husband's 
life  was  so  uncertain,  and  I  saw  you  often  look,  as  you  went  on 
your  patient  round,  as  if  one  additional  pang,  one  more  anxiety 
would  kill  you  outright,  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  have  bur- 
dened you  with  what  after  all  were  only  apprehensions.  Grace,  in 
her  desolation,  has  quite  enough  sorrow  of  her  own,  and  it  would 
seem  the  part  of  humanity  to  offer  her  sympathy  rather  than  re- 
quire it  of  her;  and  papa  looks  so  troubled  and  anxious  all  the 
time  that  I  could  not  go  to  him.  I  promised  to  write  cheerfully 
to  Willie,  so  that  I  have  even  been  denied  the  support  that  I 
had  a  right  to  expect  from  him.  There  remained,  then,  nothing 
for  me  to  do  but  to  bear  it  as  best  I  could  without  human  sym- 
pathy or  aid.  And  yet,  sister,"  she  added,  reverently,  "  I  have 
not  been  altogether  friendless  or  comfortless.  I  have  often  found 
peace  when  I  have  gone  in  a  tumult  of  anxiety,  and  comfort  when 
I  have  been  in  an  agony  of  distress." 

"  There  indeed,  Eva,  you  need  never  be  afraid  to  go.  That 
Sympathy  is  inexhaustible,  and  therefore  cannot  be  too  heavily 
taxed;  that  Compassion  is  infinite,  and  therefore  capable  of  satis- 
fying the  largest  demands.  But  for  all  that,  you  need  not  and 
ought  not  to  deny  yourself  that  human  sympathy  which  God  Him- 
self has  not  thought  insignificant,  even  though  His  own  sustain- 


CAMERON    HALL.  471 

ing  power  and  comfort  are  sufficient.  And  if  my  individual  cares 
and  duties  were  a  barrier  in  your  way  before,  they  need  be  so  no 
longer.  Charles  is  gone,  and  I  am  no  longer  occupied  with  him, 
and  since  our  relations  and  ties  are  the  same,  so  must  be  our  ap- 
prehensions and  anxieties,  and  therefore  I  will  be  able  to  enter 
into  all  your  feelings.  So  hereafter,  child,  you  will  come  to  your 
sister  as  of  old,  won't  you  ?" 

'*  Yes,  and  thank  you  for  the  privilege.  But  how  is  it  that  you 
are  able  not  only  to  bear  your  own  trouble,  but  to  help  me  too  ? 
Indeed  I  cannot  understand  it.  Oh,  sister,  how  I  wish  that  I 
were  only  like  you  I     Then  Willie  would  have  a  wife  indeed  !" 

"  Willie  would  be  sorely  grieved  at  the  change,"  replied  Julia, 
smiling,  ''and  I  not  less  so.  No,  Eva,  it  is  better  as  it  is.  Our 
temperaments  are  different  by  nature,  and  different  circumstances 
have  moulded  our  characters.  The  motherless  child  earlv  learned 
to  bear  her  little  troubles  silently  and  without  complaint,  while 
you,  more  fortunate,  always  had  a  sister's  ear  and  a  sister's  heart, 
scarcely  less  willing  than  a  mother's,  to  listen  and  to  comfort. 
So  let  it  be  still,  and  until  you  have  your  husband  with  you 
again,  be  contented  to  lean  as  heretofore  upon  your  sister." 

From  that  day  Julia  felt  that  still  another  duty  devolved  upon 
her,  and  that  she  must  sustain  Eva  as  well  as  herself,  and  the 
clinging  dependent  heart  of  the  young  wife  found  a  precious  stay 
and  support  in  her  sister's  love. 

The  autumn  passed  away  without  another  dreaded  conflict. 
Eva,  who  loved  the  month  of  October,  with  its  deep-blue  skies, 
its  pure,  bracing  air,  and  its  glorious  sunshine,  now  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  longed  for  its  departure,  and  welcomed  with 
heartfelt  satisfaction  the  bleak  winds  and  murky  skies  of  Novem- 
ber, sure  harbingers  of  that  rainy  season  that  would  put  an  end 
to  military  movements.  And  when  still  later  Willie  wrote  that 
the  army  had  actually  gone  into  winter  quarters,  with  a  joyous 
outburst  like  her  former  self  she  read  the  joyful  news,  and  from 
that  moment  a  mighty  weight  seemed  lifted  from  her  heart. 
Gradually  the  light  returned  to  her  eye,  the  elasticity  to  her 
step,  and  the  sunshine  to  her  spirit.  She  never  dreamed  that 
Willie  could  be  sick.  All  that  she  dreaded  for  him  was  the 
cannon  ball,  the  bullet,  or  the  shell;  and  now  that  he  was  for 
some  months  at  least  safe  from  these,  her  heart  rebounded  from 
its  long  depression,  and  her  father  and  Julia  saw  with  unmingled 
pleasure  that  she  was  becoming  almost  the  Eva  of  old,  the  light 
and  life  of  the  Hall.  All  through  the  winter  the  letters  came 
regularly,  and  they  were  always  messengers  of  cheerfulness  and 
hope.  They  contained  no  evil  tidings,  no  lamentations,  no  com- 
plaints; and  at  last  even  Julia,  who,  unlike  Eva,  feared  disease 


472  CAMERON     HALL.  , 

more  than  the  cannon  ball,  began  to  rest  quietly  and  securely  in 
the  assurance  of  Charles's  enjoyment  of  perfect  health. 

Eva  and  Carlo  had  never  ceased  to  be  friends,  but  it  was  long 
since  they  had  been  companions.  For  a  long  while  Carlo  used 
often  to  come  up  to  her  and  look  wistfully  in  her  face,  as  if  to 
implore  one  of  those  frolics  which  had  once  been  a  mutual  pleas- 
ure, but  his  silent  pleadings  were  unheeded  and  himself  unnoticed, 
except  with  a  passing  caress,  which  had  in  it  as  much  of  sadness 
as  of  affection.  Now,  however,  as  her  spirits  revived,  so  did  her 
love  of  those  out-door  pleasures  which  he  used  to  share,  and  the 
exercise  in  the  open  air  served  to  bring  back  the  roses  to  her 
cheek  and  vigor  to  her  frame.  Winter  though  it  was,  every 
day  when  the  sun  was  bright  she  and  Carlo  rambled  through 
the  leafless  grove  and  along  the  winding  brook,  and  she  always 
spent  a  few  minutes  upon  the  rock  under  the  old  walnut-tree 
where  her  destiny  had  been  sealed. 

Never  before  had  her  young  sister  been  so  dear  to  Julia's 
heart  as  she  was  this  winter,  and  ever  afterward  she  thanked 
God  for  its  precious  memories  of  peace  and  love.  If  Eva  had 
herself  shrunk  from  the  duties  and  responsibilities  of  woman- 
hood, Julia  had  no  less  deprecated  them  for  her.  While  she 
knew  that  her  sister  could  not  always  remain  a  child,  and  that 
she  must  at  some  future  day  "put  away  childish  things,"  Julia, 
like  Eva,  wanted  to  postpone  it  as  long  as  possible.  Eva's  joyous 
disposition  was  peculiarly  suited  to  childhood,  and  while  it  seemed 
that  she,  better  than  another,  could  have  worn  its  graces  far  into 
maturity,  it  was  a  source  of  mingled  surprise  and  regret  to  Julia 
that  circumstances  had  laid  upon  her  the  burden  of  womanhood 
while  she  was  still  a  child  in  years  as  well  as  in  feeling. 

Julia  had  been  afraid  that  in  becoming  a  woman  Eva  would 
altogether  cease  to  be  a  child,  and  in  the  first  few  months  after 
her  marriage  these  fears  had  been  painfully  realized.  She  seemed 
indeed  to  have  lost  forever  the  sunshine  of  childhood,  and  anxiety 
and  suspense  had  clouded  her  heart  and  weighed  down  her  spirits. 
Now,  however,  she  had  regained  all  that  is  bright  and  attractive 
in  childhood  without  losing  the  strength  of  character  that  she 
had  acquired  in  the  process  of  womanly  development.  Her 
character  was  now  a  beautiful  commingling  of  the  child  and  the 
woman,  with  the  gentleness,  the  dependence,  the  loving  trust  of 
the  one,  and  the  patience  and  fortitude  of  the  other.  Eva  had 
once  been  the  light  of  Julia's  heart,  now  she  was  its  comfort  and 
treasure  ;  and  to  watch  day  by  day  the  gradual  unfolding  of  those 
inward  principles,  whose  development  is  revealed  in  the  outward 
tempers  and  actions,  was  to  Julia  an  unfailing  source  of  pleas- 
ure. 


CAMERON    HALL.  473 

In  this  world  of  uncertainty  and  change,  Julia  had  never  per- 
mitted herself  to  arrange  plans  for  the  future,  upon  whose  fulfill- 
ment her  happiness  must  depend,  and  especially  did  she  endeavor 
to  guard  against  it  at  a  time  when  the  strongest  foundations  on 
which  to  build  hopes  and  plans  were  as  unstable  as  the  shifting 
sand  or  the  treacherous  wave.  But  now  she  found,  to  her  sur- 
prise, that  Involuntarily  and  almost  unconsciously  she  had  come 
to  a  quiet  determination  never  to  be  separated  from  Eva.  She 
knew  tliat  Charles's  and  Willie's  homes  were  widely  severed,  and 
she  did  not  at  all  see  clearly  how  she  could  accomplish  what  she 
wished  and  designed;  but  in  this  instance,  Julia,  more  like  Eva 
than  like  herself,  resolutely  shut  her  eyes  to  all  difi&culties,  ob- 
stacles, and  impossibilities,  and  determined  that  she  never  would 
consent  to  be  separated  from  that  sister  in  whom  her  heart  was 
becoming  every  day  more  completely  bound  up. 

Nor  was  Julia  less  necessary  to  Eva,  who  now  became  sud- 
denly aware  that  there  was  no  longer  any  barrier  of  age  between 
herself  and  her  sister,  whom  she  had  been  accustomed  to  regard 
rather  with  that  reverential  love  due  to  a  mother  than  with  the 
equalizing  and  familiar  affection  of  a  sister.  Eva  had  always 
looked  upon  herself  as  a  child  and  her  sister  as  a  woman,  and 
had  imagined  that  the  same  gulf  would  always  separate  them. 
Now,  however,  she  most  unexpectedly  found  herself  upon  a  per- 
fect equality  with  her, — her  companion,  in  the  full  sense  of  the 
word,  and  not  such  a  one  as  the  child  is  to  the  mother.  And 
from  the  stand-point  of  womanhood  which  she  had  just  reached, 
she  could  now,  more  fully  than  ever,  appreciate  Julia's  character. 
She  found  that  what  before  she  had  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  un- 
approachable goodness  with  which  Julia  had  in  some  way  been 
remarkably  endowed,  but  which  was  unattainable  by  most  of  her 
sex,  was  indeed  nothing  but  the  rich  flowering  of  a  deeply-rooted 
Christian  principle,  nothing  but  the  development  of  the  best  traits 
of  that  common  womanhood  which  was  alike  open  to  all,  and 
which  any  others  might  attain  if  they  would  seek  them  as  earn- 
estly and  conscientiously  as  she  did.  , 

And  so  the  sisters  grew  daily  more  dependent  upon  each  other, 
and  if  Julia's  enjoyment  of  her  sister's  companionship  was  some- 
times marred  by  the  lingering  dread  that,  in  spite  of  her  determ- 
ination to  the  contrary,  circumstances  might  hereafter  compel 
their  separation,  no  such  fears  disturbed  Eva,  but  in  her  bright 
dreams  of  "the  blessed  future,"  her  sister  and  her  sister's  hus- 
band combined  with  Willie  to  make  her  happiness  complete. 

In  Grace,  Julia  and  Eva  had  found  a  sister  indeed.  She  was 
not  more  kind  and  affectionate  than  she  had  been  for  many  years, 
but  all  that  restraint,  that  shrinking  from  them  which  Eva  had 

40* 


474  CAMERON    HALL, 

not  noticed,  but  which  had  so  much  annoyed  Julia,  was  now- 
gone.  Ideutitied  witli  them,  and  feeling  for  the  first  time  as  if 
she  had  a  right  to  that  kindness  which  heretofore  she  had  re- 
ceived as  a  stranger,  Grace  was  now  thoroughly  and  truly  the 
daughter  and  sister.,  and  while  Julia  rejoiced,  for  her  sake,  that 
she  had  found  in  her  desolating  bereavemeut  the  shelter  and 
sympathy  of  home,  she  was  also  thankful  for  her  own,  that  in  her 
gentle,  patient  sister-in-law,  she  could  always  have  access  to  a 
friend  and  counselor  in  whom  she  could  trust. 

From  the  beginning,  Mr.  Cameron  had  placed  Grace  upon  a 
footing  with  his  other  daughters,  and  with  a  delicacy  which  had 
avoided  so  much  attention  on  the  one  hand  as  to  make  her  feel 
that  she  was  not  one  of  tbem,  and  so  little  on  the  other  as  to  in- 
dicate that  she  did  not  occupy  the  same  place  in  his  affections  as 
they  did,  he  had  continued  to  make  her  feel  perfectly  at  home  and 
to  establish  betweeu  her  and  himself  the  same  unreserved  inter- 
course which  he  had  always  allowed  his  children. 

Mr.  Cameron  was  not,  and  never  could  again  be  what  he  had 
been.  The  sting  planted  in  his  heart  by  a  recreant  son  could 
not  but  rankle  and  fester  as  long  as  he  lived,  and  there  was 
always  a  shadow  upon  his  spirits.  Like  his  elder  daughter,  he 
tried  to  keep  all  his  troubles  to  himself,  and  thinking  that  there 
was  enough  of  sadness  at  the  Hall  without  his  adding  to  it,  he 
assumed  for  the  sake  of  others  a  cheerfulness  which  he  did  not 
feel.  But  Julia  could  not  be  deceived.  She  watched  him  more 
narrowly  and  understood  him  more  thoroughly  than  the  others, 
and  the  cloud  which,  for  their  sakes,  he  tried  to  hide,  and  which 
was  invisible  to  them,  was  very  evident  to  her.  She  devoted  her- 
self more  closely  to  her  father  than  ever,  and  the  tender  sympathy 
which  she  dared  not  express  in  words  overflowed  in  a  thousand 
little  delicate  attentions  which  a  daughter  can  bestow,  and  a 
father  can  appreciate. 

Uncle  John  was  always  bright.  His  old  age  seemed  to  re- 
verse the  usual  picture  of  human  life,  and  the  nearer  his  sun  ap- 
j)roached  the  horizon,  the  fuller  and  brighter  and  clearer  it  shone. 
Such  a  genial,  pleasant  old  age  is  as  beautiful  as  it  is  rare.  He 
never  forgot  that  he  had  been  young,  and  therefore  he  could 
enter  into  the  feelings  of  the  young  and  be  their  companion.  He 
never  forgot  that  he  was  old  and  had  but  a  brief  time  left  where- 
in to  do  life's  duty,  and  therefore  he  was  constantly  on  the  alert 
to  seize  every  opportunity  for  doing  good  or  conferring  happi- 
ness. The  smile  always  upon  his  face  was  but  the  reflection  of 
the  contented  spirit  within,  and  his  beaming  countenance  and 
cheerful  voice,  and  his  singular  talent  for  finding  and  exposing 
to  view  the  bright  side  of  every  circumstance  and  event,  made 


CAMERON    HALL.  475 

hied  always  a  welcome  visitor  and  an  invaluable  friend.  Besides 
all  this,  Uncle  John  had  a  peculiar  way  of  his  own  in  expressing 
sympathy.  It  was  not  in  the  formality  of  words  or  in  any  osten- 
sible act.  It  was  a  certain  nameless  something  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  eye,  the  grasp  of  his  hand,  the  tones  of  his  voice, 
that  spoke  right  to  the  heart,  and  needed  no  words  to  interpret. 
He  did  not  wait  to  know  the  trouble  or  to  be  told  what  the  bur- 
den was.  Where  he  was  interested,  his  eye  was  quick  to  detect 
it  if  there  was  anything  wrong,  and  just  as  quick  to  say,  by  its 
unmistakable  glance,  that  he  would  like  to  comfort  if  he  could. 
He  was  at  the  Hall  almost  every  day,  and  it  must  indeed  have 
been  some  unusual  press  of  business  which  could  compel  him  to 
deny  himself  for  several  successive  days  this,  the  only  social  pleas- 
ure of  his  lonely  life.  He  came  afc  all  hours,  and  was  always 
alike  welcome.  Sometimes  he  came  to  breakfast,  sometimes  to 
spend  the  night,  and  not  uufrequently  would  ride  up  to  the  house, 
and  calling  the  girls  out  upon  the  porch,  would  talk  to  them  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  go  away  without  dismounting. 

So  the  winter  passed  away,  calm  and  quiet,  in  spite  of  all  dis- 
turbing causes.  There  was,  it  is  true,  much  reason  for  anxiety 
and  disquietude ;  but  then,  too,  there  was  much  cause  for  thank- 
fulness, and  there  were  many  comforts  which,  fortunately  for  the 
peace  of  all,  were  gratefully  received  and  appreciated.  There 
were  no  murmurings  or  repinings  at  privations,  no  useless  long- 
ings for  the  luxuries  of  other  days,  no  complaints  because  the 
ease  and  indulgence  of  their  former  life  had  now  to  be-  exchanged 
for  care  and  labor.  They  all  patiently  accepted  these  things, 
and  each  one,  by  trying  to  bear  with  fortitude  individual  troubles, 
sustained  and  comforted  the  rest. 

But  there  was  more  than  mere  calmness,  mere  tranquillity  at 
Cameron  Hall ;  there  was  peace,  sweet  peace  in  some  of  the  hearts 
there.  There  is  a  peace  which,  while  it  cannot  make  us  indiffer- 
ent to  sorrow  and  anxiety,  can  nevertheless  enable  us  to  rise 
above  them  ;  a  peace,  which  strikes  so  deep  into  the  soul,  that 
storm  and  tempest  cannot  uproot  it ;  a  peace,  like  the  golden 
sunlight  behind  the  cloud,  which,  while  it  cannot  altogether 
pierce  its  darkness,  may  at  least  gild  its  edges.  Such  a  peace 
can  only  result  from  the  uprightness  of  an  honest  Christian  heart 
which  tries  "to  think  and  do  always  such  things  as  are  right," 
and,  conscious  of  its  own  integrity  of  purpose,  can,  like  the  obedi- 
ent and  loving  child,  trustingly  commit  its  all  to  the  protection 
and  guidance  of  that  Father  who  "doeth  all  things  well." 

Again  the  spring  returned,  the  soft,  beautiful  spring,  with  its 
life-giving  sunshine  and  gentle  showers  to  recall  from  the*grave 
of  winter  the  resurrected  life  of  inanimate  nature,  and,  alas  1  to 


476  CAMERON    HALL. 

send  too  to  the  grave  from  which  there  is  no  yearly  resurrection, 
thousands  of  stalwart  forms  and  brave  and  generous  hearts.  As 
soon  as  the  winter  was  gone,  all  was  again  astir  in  the  camp  and 
in  the  army,  and  active  preparations  were  made  on  both  sides 
for  the  prosecution  of  a  vigorous  campaign.  All  was  astir,  too, 
in  the  thousands  of  throbbing  hearts  in  our  Southern  homes,  not 
the  eager  bustle,  the  animating  excitement,  the  restless  activity 
of  preparation,  but  the  unnoticed  and  unknown  pang  of  the 
aching  heart  which  sits  in  quiet  waiting,  and  in  sickening  sus- 
pense, with  none  but  God  to  witness  and  to  know  whatsit  suffers. 
Ah  !  there  is  a  heroism  which  no  blood-stained  battle-field  re- 
veals to  the  gaze  of  an  astonished  world,  which  no  pen  engraves 
upon  the  historic  page  for  the  admiration  of  future  generations  1 
Amid  the  smoke  of  battle,  the  clash  of  arms  and  the  thunders 
of  artillery,  the  hero  and  the  patriot  win  for  themselves  a  shrine 
in  the  hearts  of  a  grateful  nation ;  but  the  recording  angel  finds 
nothing  worthier  of  a  place  on  his  tablet  than  the  uncomplain- 
ing submission  of  some  patient  wife  or  mother,  who  has  given 
her  all  to  her  country,  who  would  not  recall  the  gift,  and  who 
sits  in  the  quiet  of  her  own  home  for  weeks  and  months  and 
years,  with  torturing  fear,  and  agonizing  dread,  and  racking  sus- 
pense for  her  companions ! 

With  returning  spring,  all  Eva's  anxieties  returned.  She  tried 
hard  to  keep  them  down,  she  prayed  and  longed  to  attain  that 
implicit  trust  which  casteth  out /ear.  Ah,  Eva!  religion  cannot, 
nor  would  it  if  it  could,  render  you  less  human,  less  a  woman  I 
It  is  not  designed  to  exterminate  our  fears,  but  only  to  teach  us 
where  to  carry  them ;  not  to  crush  out  our  cares,  but  lovingly  to 
invite  us  to  cast  them  all  upon  Him,  "  for  he  careth  for  us. " 

It  did  not  require  many  weeks  of  her  renewed  anxieties  to  fade 
the  roses  which  the  respite  oi'  the  winter  had  brought  out  upon 
her  cheeks.  Again  her  step  gradually  lost  its  buoyancy,  and  her 
figure  its  contour  of  health  and  vigor.  Care  and  sorrow,  while 
they  purified  her  spirit,  did  their  work  upon  her  bodily  frame,  and 
the  hopeless  struggle  of  her  life  wasted  her  energies  and  con- 
sumed her  strength.  There  was  no  visible  disease  ;  nothing  that 
medical  skill  or  remedies  could  reach.  The  effect  was  upon  the 
body,  but  the  cause  was  deep  seated  in  the  mind,  far  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  healing  art  of  man.  Willie  did  not  know  it.  Her 
letters  were  to  him  the  same  cheerful  messengers  that  they  had 
ever  been,  and  while  there  was  in  them  less  of  the  future  thaa 
there  used  to  be,  he  did  not  regret  it,  since  it  only  left  the  more 
room  and  the  more  time  for  her  to  pour  out  the  full,  deep  tide, 
fuller  %nd  deeper  than  it  had  ever  been,  of  her  love  for  him. 
His  letters  were  still  full  of  the  future,  of  home,  and  peace;  but 


CAMERON    HALL.  477 

while  heretofore  her  heart  had  responded  to  his  in  hope  and  glad 
expectation,  now  she  always  folded  his  letters  with  a  quiet  sigh, 
for  she  felt  assured  that  the  only  home  of  peace  that  they  would 
ever  enjoy  together  would  be  in  that  world  where  "there  shall 
be  no  more  war."  She  often  wondered  if  she  ought  not  to  write 
to  Willie  and  tell  him  so,  and  sometimes  feared  that  she  was 
treating  him  cruelly  thus  to  permit  him  to  live  upon  hopes  which 
could  never  be  realized ;  but  then  she  remembered  that  he  could 
not  be  spared  now ;  that  nothing,  however  urgent,  could  obtain 
for  him  at  this  time  leave  of  absence  even  for  a  few  days.  She 
recollected  that  he  had  charged  her  never  to  forget  that  she  was 
a  soldier's  wife,  and  begged  her  to  accept  with  fortitude  its  priva- 
tions and  trials.  Above  all,  she  remembered  her  promise  to  en- 
courage him  to  be  faithful  to  his  duty,  instead  of  tempting  him  to 
neglect  or  abandon  it.  This  last  thought  never  failed  to  convince 
her  what  her  duty  was,  and  she  always  dismissed  the  subject  with 
the  determination : 

"  Willie  cannot  come  to  me,  and  he  shall  not  know  that  I  need 
him." 

The  only  exercise  that  she  was  now  capable  of  taking  was  a 
short  walk  upon  the  lawn,  before  the  sun  grew  hot.  This  time 
she  always  spent  lingering  among  the  flowers,  the  same  roses  that 
she  used  to  gather  every  day  for  Willie's  sick-room,  and  she  al- 
ways returned  to  the  house  with  a  handful  of  them  which  she 
placed  in  a  vase  upon  the  little  table  beside  Willie's  sofa,  on  which 
she  now  spent  most  of  the  day. 

Julia  watched  her  gradual  decay  with  a  painful  certainty  of  the 
result,  but  not  so  her  father  and  Uncle  John.  Man's  heart  is 
slow  to  see  and  to  acknowledge  an  impending  blow.  It  repels  the 
idea  of  an  inevitable  calamity,  and  strong  in  its  own  power  to 
control  and  to  protect,  it  clasps  tightly  the  object  of  its  love,  and 
refuses  to  believe  that  what  is  so  essential  to  its  comfort  and  hap- 
piness must  be  surrendered.  So  it  was  now  with  Mr.  Cameron. 
He  could  not  or  would  not  see  what  was  so  evident  to  others. 
He  felt  the  profoundest  sympathy  and  pity  for  the  child  who  could 
not  bear  up,  like  her  sister,  under  the  burden  of  life,  but  he  did 
not  dream  that  her  vital  energies  were  wasting  away  under  its 
weight.  He  endeavored  constantly  to  divert  her  mind  by  pleasing 
pictures  of  what  they  would  do,  and  how  happy  they  would  be, 
when  Willie  should  come  home  on  a  visit,  and  tried  to  incite  her, 
for  his  sake,  to  efforts  at  exercise  which  she  felt  herself  incapable 
of  making.  She  saw  that  her  father  was  deceived,  and  she  was 
glad  that  it  was  so. 

"He  cannot  detain  me,"  she  thought,  "and  with  him  as  with 
Willie,  'ignorance  is  bliss.'" 


478  CAMERON    HALL. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

It  was  the  evening  after  the  battle  of  Sharpsburg,  and  Charles 
Beaufort  was  staudiug,  kuife  in  hand,  at  the  door  of  the  hospital. 
He  had  been  laboring  almost  without  cessation  for  more  than 
twenty-four  hours,  and  heart  and  body  were  alike  exhausted  with 
the  sickening  toil.  With  the  assistance  of  another  surgeon  he 
had  just  completed  a  most  painful  and  delicate  operation,  aud 
was  now  leaning  wearily  against  the  door,  looking  out  upon  the 
peaceful  evening  scene,  such  a  refreshing  contrast  to  the  objects 
of  pain  and  suflfering  with  which  he  had  been  so  long  engaged. 
But  Charles  did  not  see  its  beauty.  His  thoughts  had  wandered 
to  the  neighboring  battle-field,  and  he  was  wondering,  with  a 
feeling  of  sickening  dread,  what  had  become  of  Willie,  of  whom 
no  tidings  had  been  heard  since  the  close  of  the  battle.  Walter 
and  one  of  Willie's  comrades  had  gone  out  that  morning  to  search 
for  him,  and  had  not  yet  returned.  The  day  was  nearly  gone, 
and  Charles,  whose  doubts  and  fears  had  now  almost  settled  down 
into  gloomy  certainty,  was  straining  his  eyes  to  see  if  he  could 
not  descry  in  the  distance  the  returning  messengers.  Suddenly 
a  voice  from  within  summoned  him  again  to  his  distressing  work. 

"  Come,  Beaufort,  we  want  you  here.  This  poor  fellow  has 
just  been  brought  in,  and  must  be  attended  to  at  once." 

He  turned  and  went  in,  and  a  groan  of  agony  escaped  him  as 
in  the  mangled  form  before  him,  covered  with  dust  and  gore,  he 
recognized  the  active,  stalwart  figure,  all  sinew  and  muscle,  which 
Willie  had  borne  into  the  battle  on  the  preceding  day. 

"  Not  on  this  case  1  not  on  this  case  !"  Charles  murmured,  as  he 
sank  upon  a  seat  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  "  Get 
somebody  else  to  help  you,  and  for  God's  sake  be  quick  !" 

"He  is  beyond  the  reach  of  human  skill,"  said  one  of  the  sur- 
geons gently,  as  he  went  up  to  Willie,  and  looked  with  compas- 
sion, first  upon  him  and  then  upon  his  fellow-surgeon,  who  seemed 
scarcely  to  suffer  less.     "We  need  not  torture  him." 

Another  groan  burst  from  Charles,  and  the  words,  "Poor  Eva!" 
struggled  involuntarily  from  his  lips. 

At  the  sound  of  that  name  the  closed  eyes  opened,  and  gazed 
with  a  dreamy  look  all  around.  Everything  was  strange;  the 
room,  the  faces,  the  victims  of  torture  around.  There  was  no- 
thing familiar,  nothing  pleasant;  and  with  a  sigh  of  disappoint- 
ment, he  wearily  closed  his  eyes  again,  aud  murmured : 


CAMERON    HALL.  479 

"  It  was  only  a  dream.  I  thought  somebody  called  Eva.  Give 
me  water." 

Charles  sprang  up,  and  going  to  Willie,  he  moistened  his 
parched  lips,  and  poured  some  water  into  his  mouth.  Then  he 
said  : 

"  Look  at  me,  Willie  I  Julia's  husband,  Eva's  brother  !" 
With  a  smile  of  pleasure  he  tried  to  take  Charles's  hand  and 
something  fell  from  his  relaxed  grasp  and  rolled  upon  the  floor 
The  other  hand  still  held  something  else  as  with  a  miser's  clutch* 
Charles  took  up  from  the  floor  the  little  gold  locket  contaioinff 
Eva's  picture,  tied  by  the  long  ribbon  with  which  she  had  secured 
It  around  his  neck.  Xow,  soiled  with  dust  and  wet  with  his  own 
heart's  blood,  he  had  grasped  it  still,  and  the  last  effort  of  his 
expiring  strength  was  to  fix  one  more  loving  look  upon  that  young 
lac  e . 

"Let  me  see  it  again,"  he  said. 

Charles  held  it  up  before  him.  The  fast-glazing  eyes  strained 
to  take  It  in,  and  the  last  of  earth  on  which  they  lingered  was 
that  bright,  joyous  face,  beaming  with  love  and  unclouded  by 
sorrow.  ^ 

"I  cannot  see  it  any  longer,"  he  murmured.  "It  is  all  dark 
now." 

Charles  closed  the  locket,  and  stood  waiting,  with  an  aching 
heart,  to  see  the  end  so  close  at  hand. 
"  Where  are  you,  Charles  ?"  he  asked. 

"He  clasped  the  cold  hand,  and  received  Willie's  dyine  mes- 
sage to  Eva.  "^     ° 

"Tell  Eva  that  I  have  done  my  duty.     Tell  her  that  my  life 
thus  cut  off  in  its  prime,  is  not  thrown  away  ;  if  I  had  another  I 
would  offer  that  to  my  country  too.     Tell  her  that  I  wore  her 
picture  upon   my  heart  while  I  lived,  and  that  it  shall  still  lie 
there  when  that  heart  is  cold  and  still  in  the  grave.     Tell  her  that 
I  loved  her  to  the  end;  that  the  last  thing  I  looked  upon  was 
her  face  ;  but  above  all,  tell  her  that  I  have  tried  to  fulfillray  bap- 
tismal vow  ;  I  have  tried  to  be  '  Christ's  faithful  soldier  and  serv- 
ant unto  my  life's  end;'  I  have  served  my  country,  I  have  tried  to 
serve  my  God,  I  am  not  afraid  to  die.     God  bless  my  young  wife 
my  precious  Eva  I     God  grant  us  to  meet  in  that  world  of  peace 
where  there  shall  be  no  more  war  I     God  bless,  God  protect  God 
comfort  my  Eva,  for  Christ's  sake  I"  r  , 

The  prayer  ceased.  The  life  had  ebbed  away  with  the  blood 
of  that  brave,  young  heart,  and  soldier  eyes  were  not  ashamed  of 
the  soldier  tears  that  fell  upon  that  crushed  and  lifeless  form 

Charles  took  one  more  long,  lingering  look  at  the  bright,  happy 
face  which  would  nevermore  be  bright  and  happy,  and  murmuring 


480  CAMERON     HALL. 

"Poor  Eva  I"  he  reverently  laid  the  yonng  wife's  picture  upon  the 
husband's  heart,  before  it  had  yet  grown  cold  in  death.  He  then 
unclasped  the  clinched  hand,  and  fourid  what  had  once  been  a 
long,  rich  curl,  now  a  tangled  mass,  clotted  with  gore. 

In  the  quiet  of  midnight,  and  in  the  subdued  and  feeble  twi- 
light of  the  starlit  skies,  a  waiting  group  stood  around  an  open 
grave.  The  stars  seemed  to  look  shrinkingly  upon  the  tield  of 
blood  and  carnage  beneath  them,  and  it  was  a  pale  and  sickly 
light  that  they  shed  upon  it,  as  if  ashamed  to  reveal  its  gory  iior- 
rors.  Strangely,  unnaturally  quiet  was  the  night.  The  thunders 
of  artillery,  the  rattle  of  musketry,  the  shout  and  yell  of  battle, 
were  all  hushed  now.  Even  Death  himself  seemed  satisfied  with 
hi§  harvest,  and  not  unwillingly  allowed  a  brief  respite  to  his 
messengers  of  destruction.  Surrounded  on  every  side  by  death 
in  all  its  unmitigated  horrors,  with  its  stillness,  its  coldness,  its 
helplessness,  the  words  of  the  solemn  burial  service,  "in  the  midst 
of  life  we  are  in  death,"  sounded  like  a  warning  voice  from  the 
thousands  of  dead  who  strewed  the  red  field,  in  whose  veins  the 
life-blood  had,  the  day  befoVe,  coursed  as  rapidly,  and  whose 
hearts  had  throbbed  as  hopefully  as  if  they  were  never  to  die. 
Now  the  blood  had  ceased  to  flow,  the  heart  was  still,  and  there, 
in  that  vast  graveyard  of  unburied  dead,  one  was  now  laid  away 
to  rest,  with  the  sad  words  of  commitment:  "Earth  to  earth; 
ashes  to  ashes  ;  dust  to  dust." 

It  was  done.  The  young  "soldier  slept  a  profound,  dreamless 
sleep,  which  would  nevermore  be  disturbed  by  the  din  of  battle 
and  the  clash  of  arms.  His  brother-soldiers  lingered  a  moment 
after  their  work  was  done,  looked  sadly  upon  that  fresh  mound, 
and  then  turned  and  went  away  to  the  active  duties  and  bustling 
scenes  of  their  daily  life.  Only  one  remained;  and  as  Charles 
Beaufort  stood  with  folded  arms  at  the  head  of  that  newlv-made 
grave,  his  heart  was  far  away,  and  his  thoughts  were  painfully 
busy  in  picturing  the  agony  of  that  sweet,  childlike  heart,  on 
which  the  blight  of  widowhood  had  so  early  fallen. 

That  same  night,  at  Cameron  Hall,  Eva  tossed,  feverish  and 
restless,  upon  her  sleepless  bed.  It  was  not  that  her  anxieties 
had  been  sharpened,  or  that  her  fears  were  greater  than  usual; 
it  was  not  that  she  dreaded  for  Willie  any  special  calamity:  it  was 
only  one  of  those  unaccountable  heart-longings  which  sometimes 
seize  us  when  separated  by  death  or  absence  from  those  we  love ; 
when  reason's  voice  is  unheeded ;  when  impossibilities  are  ig- 
nored; when  -even  obligations  of  Christian  submission  and  pa- 
tience are,  for  the  moment,  forgotten,  and  the  heart,  like  the 
mother  of  old,  refuses  to  be  comforted,  and  in  its  desolation  and 
loneliness  cries  out  for  the  object  of  its  desire.     So  it  was  that 


CAMERON     HALL.  481 

night  with  Eva.  All  that  she  knew  or  felt  was  that  she  wanted 
Willie,  that  her  heart  needed  him,  and  that  she  must  have  him. 
She  did  not  rebel,  she  did  not  even  murmur,  but  she  could  not 
subdue  the  painful  longing,  and  she  lay  there  in  the  silence  and 
darkness  of  midnight,  wheYe  all  else  was  peaceful  except  her  heart, 
all  else  was  still  except  its  restless  beating.  Sad  and  lonely, 'and 
unable  to  compose  herself  to  sleep,  she  at  last  thought  of  awak-* 
ening  her  sister,  who  slept  on  a  couch  beside  her  bed.  For 
awhile  she  refused  to  yield  to  the  S'elfish  desire.  Her  sister  had 
lain  awake  a  long  time  with  her,  and  had  only  given  herself  up 
to  repose  when  she  thought  that  Eva  had  fallen  asleep.  Now 
she  was  resting  sweetly  and  quietly,  and  Eva  knew  that,  like  her- 
self, Julia's  only  respite  from  corroding  and  wearing  anxiety  was 
in  the  blessed  unconsciousness  of  sleep.  For  awhile  she  tossed 
and  groaned,  struggling  against  the  temptation  that  was  becoming 
every  moment  more  irresistible;  but  at  last,  with  a  mingled  fuel- 
ing of  helplessness  and  self-reproach,  she  called  her  sister.  Julia 
sprang  up  in  an  instant,  and  hastily  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Nothing  really,  sister,"  answered  Eva,  in  a  penitent  tone. 
"I  am  ashamed  to  disturb  you,  and  still  more  ashamed  to  ac- 
knowledge that  I  have  done  it  for  no  better  reason  than  because 
I  cannot  sleep  and  want  company." 

"Never  mind  disturbing  me,"  answered  Julia,  kindly.  "That 
is  nothing  in  comparison  with  my  relief  to  find  that  yoa  are  not 
sick." 

"No,  sister,  not  sick,"  she  answered,  plaintively,  "but  lonely, 
inexpressibly  lonely ;  sick  at  heart  if  not  in  body.  Never  in  all 
my  life  before  have  I  felt  such  a  longing  to  see  Willie.  It  is 
always  the  paramount  wish  of  my  heart,  but  to-night  it  is  the  ab- 
sorbing one.  Always  before,  the  thought  of  home  and  of  the 
love  of  you  and  papa  has  mingled  with  a  subduing  influence  in 
the  sorrow  of  my  separation  from  him.  But  to-night  all  this 
seems  as  nothing.  I  cannot  even  find  any  comfort  in  the  thought 
of  these  blessings,  great  as  they  are.  Oh,  sister  1  I  don't  want  to 
be  ungrateful  for  the  tenderness  of  the  best  of  fathers,  the  best 
of  sisters,  but  I  want  Willie.     Nobody  else  can  satisfy  me  now  I" 

Julia  listened  in  silent  sorrow.  She  had  no  encouraging 
hopes  to  offer  Eva,  for  she  knew  how  impossible  it  was  for  him 
to  come  now,  and  she  felt  assured  that  unless  he  did  come  soon, 
he  would  never  see  his  wife  again. 

Eva  talked  all  night,  and  her  burden  was  her  longing  to  see 
Willie.     At  last,  with  a  weary  sigh,  she  said  : 

"  Oh,  for  the  sweet  forgetfulness  of  sleep  !  I  am  so  tired,  and 
ray  head  is  so  confused.  It  is  not  pain,  but  it  is  a  feeling  worse 
than  pain." 

41 


482  CAMERON    HALL. 

It  was  nearly  daylight  when  she  fell  into  an  uneasy  slumber, 
which  at  length  settled  down  into  profound  sleep. 

The  morning  was  far  advanced,  and  the  sun  was  bright  and 
hot,  when  Uncle  John  caine  in,  his  face  glowing  with  heat,  and 
as  he  gave  Julia  two  letters,  he  said  : 

"I  could  not  wait  until  the  evening  to  bring  them,  for  I  knew 
that  you  children  were  so  anxious,  and  that  they  would  be  so 
welcome." 

Julia  flew  up  stairs  and  looked  into  Eva's  room.  She  was 
awake,  and  asked,  languidly : 

*•  What  time  is  it,  sister  ?" 

■"  It  is  almost  twelve  o'clock.  See  here  I  I  have  brought  you 
a  pleasure  next  to  that  of  seeing  Willie." 

With  a  faint  cry  of  joy,  Eva  seized  the  letter,  and  tearing 
open  the  envelope,  sat  up  in  bed  to  read  it.  It  was  written  hope- 
fully and  cheerfully  as  usual  on  the  eve  of  their  departure,  to 
what  destination  he  did  not  know,  but  he  felt  sure  that  it  was  to 
active  service.  The  telegraph  had  since  revealed  the  object  to 
be  the  invasion  of  Maryland  and  Pennsylvania.  The  sisters  were 
quietly  reading  their  letters,  when  a  sudden  scream  startled  not 
only  Eva,  but  Julia,  too ;  and  Lucy  rushed  into  the  room,  wring- 
ing her  hands,  and  exclaiming,  in  wild  affright : 

"Oh,  Lord!  Miss  Julia  1  Master  Willie's  killed!  He  was 
killed  the  other  day  in  a  big  battle  !" 

With  a  piercing  shriek  of  agony  that  absolutely  stilled  Julia's 
heart,  Eva  sank  back  upon  the  bed  in  wild  delirium.  The  sud- 
den shock  had  been  too  much  for  her  shattered  nerves,  and  scream 
followed  scream,  until  they  all  wondered  how  her  exhausted  frame 
could  bear  such  intense  excitement.  She  was  perfectly  ungovern- 
able, and  when,  at  last,  she  became  quiet  from  sheer  exhaustion, 
there  was  a  wild,  unnatural  gleam  of  her  eye,  so  different  from 
its  usual  soft  expression,  that  Julia  feared  that  her  reason  was 
hopelessly  gone.  Her  whole  face  was  distorted,  and  she  tore 
out  her  hair  by  handfuls  and  strewed  the  floor  with  her  long, 
beautiful  curls.  She  heeded  not  father  or  sister  or  Uncle  John. 
Indeed,  she  did  not  seem  to  recognize  any  of  them.  Grace  alone 
could  soothe  and  quiet  her;  and  Julia  went  off  to  her  own  room 
to  pray  earnestly  for  the  privilege  of  laying  in  the  grave  that 
sister  from  whom  but  a  few  short  months  ago  she  had  resolved, 
in  her  own  short-sighted  ignorance,  that  nothing  should  ever 
separate  her. 

Medical  treatment  was  of  no  avail.  Her  head  was  shaved  and 
blistered,  but  it  did  not  abate  her  violence.  She  was  perfectly 
uncontrollable  for  days,  and  then,  as  if  from  mere  physical  pros- 
tration, the  paroxysms  became  less  violent  and  less  frequent.    So 


CAMERON    HALL.  483 

it  went  on  for  weeks,  and  from  intense  excitement  there  was  a 
slow  and  gradual  sinking  both  of  mind  and  body  into  hopeless 
apathy.  She  never  mentioned  Willie  or  made  the  slightest  allu- 
sion to  him,  and,  indeed,  she  rarely  spoke  at  all,  except  to  make 
known  her  physical  wants.  Grace  and  Julia  never  left  her. 
The  only  emotion  which  she  ever  showed  was  a  dread  of  being 
left  alone ;  and  now,  since  the  violence  was  all  gone  and  she  had 
become  perfectly  quiet,  her  old,  clinging  love  for  her  sister  had 
returned,  and  she  was  not  willing  for  her  to  leave  her  side  for  a 
single  moment.  Julia,  with  the  patience  of  a  mother  with  her 
little  child,  devoted  herself  entirely  to  Eva,  and  tried  hard  to 
recall  her  wandering  intellect.  She  was  always  devising  and 
planning  something  pleasant  to  engage  her  attention,  and  she 
hoped  and  longed  for  her  to  mention  Willie.  This,  Julia  regarded 
as  the  lost  balance-wheel  of  her  mind,  and  she  clung  to  the  belief 
that  if  Eva  could  only  be  thoroughly  aroused  to  a  sense  of  her 
bereavement,  that  all  would  be  right  again.  She  was  afraid  to 
mention  him  herself,  but  by  talking  of  the  past,  and  by  leading 
Eva's  thoughts  into  those  channels  which  would  most  naturally 
suggest  Willie,  she  tried  to  awaken  her  memory  and  to  make  her 
speak  the  name  which  she  herself  dared  not  utter.  But  day  after 
day  and  week  after  week  Julia  had  hoped  and  waited  in  vain. 
Neither  word  nor  look  betrayed  that  Willie  was  not  the  same  in- 
different stranger  that  he  was  when  Uncle  John  had  brought  him 
to  the  Hall.  Not  even  the  flowers  which,  more  than  anything 
else  were  associated  with  him,  could  now  recall  him ;  and  Eva 
watched  her  sister  as  she  often  arranged  them  in  the  same  vase 
and  on  the  same  table  that  used  always  to  stand  beside  his  sofa, 
with  the  same  quiet  indifference  that  she  saw  her  do  everything 
else. 

One  morning  Julia  came  into  the  library  with  a  handful  of 
magnificent  roses  sparkling  with  dew-drops.  She  called  Eva's 
attention  to  their  uncommon  beauty,  and  received  in  reply  the 
casual  glance  and  the  indifferent  response  to  which  she  was  now 
quite  accustomed.  While  she  was  arranging  them  in  the  vase, 
Julia  took  up  a  splendid  white  rose,  half  blown,  and  laden  with 
dew.  She  held  it  up  and  was  looking  at  it  in  silent  admiration, 
when  all  at  once  Eva  said,  extending  her  hand : 

"Give  it  to  me,  sister;  it  reminds  me  of  Willie.  He  loves 
flowers." 

With  a  thrill  of  pleasure  and  of  awakened  hope,  Julia  looked 
earnestly  into  her  sister's  face  as  she  gave  her  the  flower.  The 
wildness  was  all  gone  from  the  eye,  and  in  its  stead  was  an  ex- 
pression of  patient  suffering,  but  there  was  still  a  dreamy,  wan- 
dering, inquiring  look,  as  if  the  mind  were  vainly  searching  for  a 


484  CAMERON  "hall. 

lost  link,  a  key  to  some  painful  mystery.  But  this  was  all.  The 
tangled  skein  baffled  the  feeble  efforts  of  the  impaired  reason, 
and  while  now  Willie  all  at  once  resumed  his  long-lost  place  in 
her  thoughts,  and  she  talked  of  him  all  the  time,  it  was  with  a 
strange  admixture  of  consciousness  and  ignorance.  It  was  a  pain- 
ful yet  a  sweet  hallucination  which  mingled,  as  only  an  unsettled 
reason  can,  the  sense  of  bereavement  with  an  utter  ignorance  of  its 
cause.  She  seemed  to  know  and  yet  not  to  know  that  she  was 
a  widow.  Every  morning  she  dressed  herself  in  her  widow's 
weeds  and  gathered  up  beneath  the  folds  of  her  widow's  cap  the 
soft,  silvery  hair,  with  which  the  fearful  shock  had  replaced  her 
brown,  clustering  curls;  but  every  evening  the  cap  was  removed, 
the  white  hair  was  curled,  a  wreath  of  flowers,  such  as  she  wore 
at  her  wedding,  encircled  her  brow,  and,  robed  in  her  white  muslin 
dress,  she  sat  for  hours  on  the  porch  watching  with  patient  ex- 
pectation for  Willie's  return.  And  when  twilight  had  deepened 
into  night  she  would  go  into  the  house  again,  with  a  look  of  sad 
but  uncomplaniing  disappointment,  and  would  say :  "Willie  is  not 
coming  to-night,  sister,  but  he  will  be  here  to-morrow  ?"  Theji 
the  bridal  wreath  and  the  white  dress  were  laid  aside  to  be  worn 
again  on  the  morrow.  Day  after  day  she  followed  the  same 
routine.  Continued  disappointment  did  not  wear  out  her  hope ; 
no  word  of  surprise  or  impatience  that  Willie  did  not  come  ever 
escaped  her  lips,  but  quietly  and  patiently  she  watched  for  him 
every  evening,  to  be  every  evening  as  surely  disappointed. 
There  was  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  her  appearance 
as  she  thus  waited  for  him.  Her  complexion,  always  fair,  was 
now  almost  dazzling  in  its  whiteness,  and  unrelieved  by  the  slight- 
est tinge  of  color.  There  was  something  singular  but  by  no 
means  unpleasing  in  the  efl'ect  of  those  curls  of  soft,  silvery  hair, 
that  fell  around  her  sad,  young  face,  and  seemed  to  mingle  in 
one  touching  picture  the  griefs  and  troubles  of  old  age  with  the 
freshness  of  early  youth.  And  while  she  still  expected  Willie's 
return,  with  strange  inconsistency  she  was  neither  surprised  nor 
disappointed  that  she  did  not  hear  from  him.  For  a  long  time, 
Julia  carefully  concealed  Charles's  letters,  neither  reading  them 
in  her  presence  nor  making  any  allusion  to  them  for  fear  that  it 
would  awaken  anxiety  and  wonder  that  she  too  no  longer  re- 
ceived the  letters  to  which  she  had  so  long  been  accustomed. 
Her  caution,  however,  was  wholly  unnecessary.  One  day  Eva 
came  suddenly  upon  her  sister  while  she  was  reading  a  letter 
from  Charles.  Julia  tried  to  hide  it,  but  Eva  recognized  it  at 
once,  and  only  asked  if  Charles  was  well  and  if  he  mentioned 
Walter.  She  seemed  to  know  that  he  could  tell  her  nothing  of 
Willie. 


CAMERON     HALL.  485 


The  care  and  attentioQ  of  the  family  were  now  concentrated 
upon  Eva.  She  was  the  constant  thought  of  the  household  by 
day  and  by  night,  and,  while  as  they  looked  upon  the  sad  wreck 
of  a  joyous  life,  a  loving  nature,  and  a  young  heart,  they  could 
not  wish  to  detain  her  here  in  her  sorrow,  they  still  clung  to  the 
patient  sufferer  with  a  yearning,  tender  love,  stronger  even  than 
they  had  felt  for  her  in  her  days  of  happiness.  Julia  seemed  only 
to  live  for  her.  To  wait  upon  her  and  talk  to  her,  to  plan  for 
her  comfort,  to  interest  and  amuse  her  were  her  employment  and 
her  sad  pleasure. 

After  a  time  Eva's  strength  began  again  to  fail,  and  Willie's  sofa 
was  generally  her  place  all  day  until  the  evening,  when  she  always 
dressed  herself  to  meet  him.  Heretofore  she  had  gathered  her 
own  flowers  from  Willie's  favorite  rose  bushes,  twined  her  own 
wreath  and  dressed  herself,  but  now  she  was  not  strong  enough 
for  such  an  exertion,  and  it  became  Julia's  daily  duty.  Never 
before  was  there  so  painful  and  trying  a  task  as  now  devolved 
upon  poor  Julia.  To  sit  with  tearless  eyes  and  listen  to  Eva's 
expectations  that  he  would  certainly  come  this  time ;  to  hear 
unmoved  her  admiration  of  the  wreath  that  she  was  making,  and 
her  assurances  that  it  would  meet  with  Willie's  approval;  to 
hear  her  childlike  expressions  of  that  love  which,  in  her  young 
heart,  was  emphatically  stronger  than  death,— required  a  degree 
of  self-control  far  beyond  anything  that  she  had  ever  attempted 
before,  and  to  which  even  her  habits  of  discipline  scarcely  enabled 
her  to  attain.  Often  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  her  hands  trembled 
so  that  the  flower  dropped  from  them,  and  sometimes  she  had  to 
turn  hastily  away  to  prevent  the  unbidden  tear  from  falling  upon 
the  wreath. 

Not  unfrequently,  when  Eva  was  dressed  ready  to  meet  Willie, 
she  would  say: 

"He  will  certainly  come  this  evening;  don't  you  think  so, 
sister?"  And  Julia,  believing  that  in  such  a  case  the  slight 
equivocation  could  not  be  wrong,  would  reply : 

"I  trust  so,  my  darling." 

Then  Eva  would  pass  out  to  her  pleasant  dream  of  hope  and 
happiness  that  was  never  to  be  realized ;  and  Julia,  sinking  into 
a  chair,  would  seek  relief  in  those  tears  which  for  her  sister's  sake 
she  had  before  restrained. 

The  only  thing  that  ever  awakened  the  light  in  Eva's  eye  or  a 
beam  of  pleasure  upon  her  face  was  the  organ-music.  She 
specially  loved  it  at  the  hour  when  she  was  waiting  for  Willie, 
because,  as  she  said,  she  wanted  him  to  hear  his  glad  welcome 
home  long  before  words  and  smiles  could  reach  him.  Grace 
gratified  her,  and  so  day  after  day  the  young  wife  and  the  music 

41* 


486  CAMERON     HALL. 

prepared  together  their  welcome  for  him  who  was  never  to  re- 
ceive it. 

It  was  now  late  in  October.  The  chill  evening  air  could  not 
drive  Eva  from  her  seat  on  the  open  porch,  and  neither  argu- 
ment nor  entreaty  could  prevail  upon  her  to  exchange  her  muslin 
dress  for  one  of  warmer  texture  or  even  to  throw  around  her  a 
protecting  shawl. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  Willie  likes  this  dress  best,  and  he  must  see 
me  first  in  this." 

One  evening  Julia  had  been  much  longer  than  usual  gathering 
the  flowers  for  Eva's  wreath.  They  were  now  almost  gone  and 
she  had  considerable  difficulty  in  finding  enough.  As  soon  as 
she  entered  the  room,  Eva  exclaimed,  glancing  at  the  clock : 

"  Come,  sister,  make  haste !  We  are  later  than  usual.  I 
ought  to  have  begun  to  dress  half  an  hour  ago." 

"It  is  quite  time  enough,  Eva,"  said  Julia,  wishing  to  put  it 
ofiF  as  long  as  possible,  for  every  day  she  grew  more  and  more 
anxious  about  her  sister's  long  exposure  to  the  cold  evening  air. 

"  No,  sister,  we  are  too  late,"  she  answered,  nervously.  "Willie 
is  certainly  coming  now,  and  I  would  not  for  the  world  have  him 
come  and  not  find  me  waiting.  Please,  sister,  let  us  make 
haste." 

Thus  urged,  Julia  could  not  delay.  Eva  watched  the  grow- 
ing wreath  with  more  than  her  usual  interest,  and  frequently 
stopped  to  admire  the  flowers  as  she  handed  them  to  her  sister. 

"What  a  beautiful  bud  this  is  1"  she  exclaimed.  "I  know  that 
Willie  will  admire  this  particularly.  He  loves  flowers,"  she 
added,  dreamily,  "and  told  me,  when  he  went  away  so  long  ago, 
that  if  there  should  be  a  flower  in  the  pit  or  in  the  garden  when 
he  came  home  I  must  wear  it  to  meet  him.  I  am  going  to  meet 
him  now,  and  I  must  wear  the  flowers  as  he  told  me.  He  used 
to  say  that  I  always  ought  to  wear  them, — that  flowers  and  Eva 
seemed  to  belong  to  each  other." 

And  so  she  talked  on,  partly  to  her  sister  but  more  to  herself, 
while  Julia  placed  the  wreath  upon  the  fair  young  brow  on  which 
the  white  hair  was  smoothly  parted  to  fall  on  each  side  in  its 
silvery  curls. 

"  Certainly  coming  1  Certainly  coming  now !"  were  the  last 
words  that  Julia  heard  as  Eva  went  out  to  her  evening  watch. 

At  first  the  bright  rays  of  the  setting  sun  rested  like  a  halo 
upon  her  head,  and  then,  as  the  shadows  lengthened  and  she  still 
sat  there  in  her  quiet,  patient  expectancy,  with  her  white  face, 
her  white  dress,  and  her  white  hair,  she  looked  in  the  deepening 
twilight  as  if  she  might  have  been  a  white-robed  messenger  from 
the  spirit-land. 


CAMERON    HALL.  487 

Wben  she  went  back  into  the  house  her  face  did  not  wear  its 
usual  expression  of  sad  disappointment.  It  was  bright  with  hope 
and  confidence;  but  her  step  was  languid,  and  throwing  herself 
upon  the  bed,  she  said,  wearily : 

"I  am  tired,  sister,  very  tired." 

Yes,  she  was  tired :  tired  of  watching,  tired  of  waiting,  tired 
of  longing,  tired  of  hoping !  In  a  few  minutes  she  was  fast 
asleep  in  her  bridal  dress  and  her  bridal  wreath,  and  the  young 
wife,  unconscious  of  her  widowhood,  was  dreaming  sweetly  of 
meeting  Willie. 

The  next  morning  the  sounds  of  awakened  life,  the  bright  sun- 
shine, and  the  singing  of  the  birds  could  not  disturb  Eva.  She 
slept  sweetly,  calmly.  Her  face  was  very  white  and  very  still, 
but  it  wore  a  sweet  glad  smile,  the  smile  with  which  she  at  last 
met  Willie  I     He  did  not  come  to  her,  but  she  had  gone  to  him  I 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Eva  had  been  dead  but  a  few  weeks  when  rumors  again  reached 
Hopedale  of  the  proposed  occupation  of  the  town  by  the  Federal 
army  during  the  approaching  winter.  Julia  was  now  sorely 
tried.  To  be  shut  up  within  the  enemy's  lines  and  cut  off  from 
all  communication  with  her  husband  was  an  intolerable  thought, 
and  to  leave  her  father  alone  in  his  sorrowful  old  age  was  quite 
as  impossible.  Mr.  Cameron  was  now  rapidly  growing  old,  for 
trouble  silvers  the  hair,  paralyzes  the  energies,  wrinkles  the  brow, 
and  wastes  the  strength  faster  than  old  age  or  disease.  Julia 
pondered  her  duty  long  and  earnestly.  She  knew  full  well  to 
what  wearing  anxiety  she  would  subject  herself  if  she  decided  to 
stay  at  home,  and  she  knew  too  that  it  would  condemn  her  hus- 
band to  the  same  burden ;  but  when  she  looked  upon  her  gray- 
headed  stricken  father,  there  was  something  that  appealed  irre- 
sistibly to  a  daughter's  feelings,  and  deep  down  in  her  heart  she 
heard  a  low  but  distinct  whisper:  '^  Honor  thy  father.''^ 

And  now  came  a  letter  from  Charles,  bidding  her  escape  with 
eager  haste,  and  begging  her  not  to  linger  until  retreat  should 
be  impossible.  In  her  answer  there  was  no  hesitation.  She 
pictured  the  old  man's  loneliness  and  sorrow,  and  told  her  hus- 
band that  she  could  not  consent  to  leave  her  father.  It  was  a 
painful  letter  both  to  herself  and  to  Charles.  She  closed  it  with 
a  pang,  as  she  thought  that  perhaps  with  her  own  hand  she  had 


488  CAMERON    HALL. 

sealed  their  final  separation  on  earth  ;  and  he,  after  he  had  read  it, 
refolded  it  with  a  sigh,  and  murmured :  "  It  is  hard,  but  she  is 
right." 

She  did  not  tell  her  father  what  she  had  done;  and  a  few 
mornings  after  she  had  dispatched  this  letter,  Mr.  Cameron  sum- 
moned her  and  Grace  to  the  library.  He  looked  sadder  and 
more  troubled  than  ever,  and  Julia  wondered  what  new  cause  of 
sorrow  he  had  found.  Without  a  single  word  of  preface  or  ex- 
planation, he  only  said : 

"  My  daughters,  you  must  both  leave  me  I" 

Grace  looked  up  in  speechless  surprise,  and  Julia,  without  a 
moment's  reflection  and  with  an  impulsiveness  that  painfully 
recalled  Eva,  replied,  hastily: 

"Xever,  papa,  never!" 

Her  father  looked  at  her  with  a  moistened  eye,  and  said : 

"  You  will  go,  my  daughter,  if  your  father  thinks  it  necessary, 
if  he  particularly  requests  it, — will  you  not?" 

"  Yes,  papa,  if  you  bid  me  go  I  must  obey,  but  I  will  not 
voluntarily  leave  you.  You  cannot  do  without  me  now.  Charles 
and  I  have  already  settled  that  matter,  and  I  am  to  stay  with 
you." 

"  God  bless  my  children  for  their  unselfishness!"  he  answered; 
"  but  I  will  not  require  the  sacrifice  of  them.  I  will  not  separate 
you.  You  are  young  and  I  am  old.  You  need  each  other;  I 
can  get  along  alone  the  brief  remnant  of  my  life." 

"But,  father,"  interposed  Grace,  "  why  send  me  away?  Julia's 
ties  and  duties  may  call  her  elsewhere,  but  mine  are  here.  A 
wanderer  for  so  many  long  years,  I  have  just  found  a  home  and 
a  father,  and  my  worn-out  heart  longs  for  'rest.  Don't  send  me 
away  among  strangers;  let  me  stay  with  you." 

"God  only  knows,  Grace,  how  I  wish  that  it  could  be  so. 
Without  my  children  I  will  be  lonely  and  desolate  indeed,  and 
yet  it  is  for  my  own  comfort  as  well  as  for  your  sake  that  I  now 
send  you  away.  We  live  in  the  country,  and  we  cannot  tell  to  what 
annoyances  and  insults  you  may  be  exposed.  You  remember  to 
what  the  girls  were  subjected  before ;  and  when  I  came  home  and 
found  them  in  the  power  of  that  Yankee  rufiBan,  I  resolved  that 
they  should  never  again  be  exposed  to  anything  like  that.  I 
would  rather  be  separated  from  you  for  years,  yes  forever,  than 
to  see  you  in  the  power  of  their  lawless  and  brutal  soldiers.  Now, 
to  such  insults  as  they  received  before,  and  perhaps  worse,  you 
would  be  liable  all  the  time.  I  should  be  miserable  in  view  of  it 
by  day  and  by  night,  and  it  is  to  rid  myself  of  this  intolerable 
burden  as  well  as  to  insure  your  safety  that  I  ask  you  to  go 
away." 


CAMERON    HALL.  489 

"But,  papa,"  said  Julia,  earnestly,  "do  you  go  with  us.  Let 
us  all  go  together,  and  then  there  will  be  no  cause  of  anxiety  left 
behind.  There  are  so  few  of  us  left  now,"  she  added,  as  her  eyes 
filled,  "  and  so  many  dangers  to  be  encountered,  that  we  ought  to 
stay  together." 

"This  is  my  home,  daughter,"  he  answered,  "the  only  home 
that  I  have  ever  had.  I  was  born  here,  I  have  lived  here,  and 
here  at  the  old  Hall  I  want  to  die.  Young  people  can  bear 
transplanting,  but  when  the  fibers  of  the  old  heart  have  struck 
deeply  and  become  firmly  rooted,  it  will  not  do  to  tear  them  up. 
No,  I  cannot  leave  my  home.  And  besides,  Julia,  what  would 
then  become  of  the  old  Hall  ?  If  we  abandon  it,  the  enemy  will 
desolate  and  ruin  it.  Think  of  your  home,  your  mother's,  Eva's 
home  a  desolation,  a  ruin  !     You  could  not  bear  that." 

"It  would  be  very  hard  to  bear,"  she  answered,  sorrowfully, 
"  but  you  cannot  prevent  it  by  staying.  If  they  choose  they  will 
lay  it  waste,  and  if  they  should,  it  would  be  better  for  you  to 
be  where  you  could  not  see  it.  We  were  all  at  home  before  and 
our  presence  neither  delayed  nor  restrained  the  work  of  plunder 
and  devastation.  But,  papa,  there  is  a  stronger  reason  yet  why 
you  should  go  with  us;  think  of  the  oath  of  allegiance,  that 
fearful  oath ;  you  cannot  subscribe  to  that  I"  she  added  with  a 
shudder. 

"  Never,  my  daughter  I  May  God  in  mercy  paralyze  my  tongue 
before  He  ever  permits  me  to  perjure  myself.  But  they  may  not 
administer  the  oath,  at  least  for  some  time." 

"  We  have  no  right  to  expect  exemption  from  their  uniform 
custom.  When  they  occupy  a  place  they  always  do  administer 
it,  if  not  to  the  citizens  generally,  at  least  to  a  selected  number, 
of  whom  you  would  most  probably  be  one.  If  you  refuse,  the 
penalty  will  be  banishment;  banishment  either  North  or  South. 
If  South,  it  would  be  the  very  same  exile  that  you  now  fear,  ex- 
cept that  you  would  probably  be  sent  off  at  a  moment's  warning, 
whereas  if  you  go  now  you  can  go  at  your  leisure,  and  take  with 
you  whatever  comforts  you  please.  But  if  you  should  be  sent 
North  to  a  prison,  or  at  best  among  strangers  and  enemies,  with- 
out friends,  old  and  infirm,  and  broken  down  in  mind  and  body, — 
oh,  papal  what  would  become  of  you,  what  would  become  of  me 
then  ?" 

"I  have  thought  it  all  over,  my  daughter,"  Mr.  Cameron  re- 
plied, sadly  but  firmly,  "and  I  have  decided  to  stay.  I  must  keep 
the  old  Hall,  Julia,  if  I  can,  not  so  much  for  myself  as  for  you 
and  Walter.  I  shall  not  need  it  much  longer  myself;  but  what 
would  you  children  do  without  a  home  ?" 

"  We  would  rather  do  without  it,  papa,  than  to  have  you 


490  CAMERON    HALL. 

try  to  take  care  of  it  for  us  at  such  a  sacrifice.  Your  life,  your 
health  are  worth  more  to  us  than  all  these  broad  acres,  more 
than  the  old  Hall,  dear  as  it  is  to  us !" 

"Ah,  my  child!"  he  answered,  shaking  his  head  sorrowfully, 
"you  may  think  that  you  do  not  need  a  home;  but,  thank  God, 
you  do  not  yet  know  what  it  is  to  be  without  one !  You  may 
think  that  you  can  do  without  the  means  to  support  life;  but  you 
do  not  know  what  poverty  means.  All  my  life  I  have  tried  to 
shield  you  from  it,  and  I  intend  to  try  and  do  so  to  the  end." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  poverty,  papa,"  she  answered,  tirmly. 
"I  have  enjoyed  our  luxurious  style  of  living,  and  I  would  like  to 
enjoy  it  still;  but  if  this  may  not  be,  I  hope  to  be  able  to  sur- 
render it  without  any  vain  and  sinful  regrets.  All  that  concerns 
me  now  is  your  safety,  your  comfort,  and  I  will  promise  to  submit 
to  anything,  nay,  more,  to  welcome  anything,  if  I  can  only  have 
my  father  with  me!" 

Mr.  Cameron  was  deeply  moved,  but  his  purpose  was  still  un- 
shaken.    He  shook  his  head,  and  only  answered: 

"  It  cannot  be,  my  daughter,  it  cannot  be.  We  must  not  all 
desert  the  old  Hall." 

Julia  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  suddenly  a  new  thought 
struck  her,  and  she  exclaimed : 

"  Then,  papa,  do  you  go  and  leave  Grace  and  myself  to  take 
care  of  the  Hall.  If  there  is  any  manliness  in  the  Federal  army, 
it  will  protect  rather  than  injure  both  the  persons  and  the  prop- 
erty of  two  defenseless  women." 

"  I  should  think  that  experience  had  already  taught  you, 
Julia,  how  much  manliness  is  in  them,  how  much  courtesy  to  ex- 
pect at  their  hands !  No,  no  I  Not  for  all  the  homesteads  in 
Yirginia,  not  for  all  in  the  Southern  Confederacy  would  I  leave 
you  here  in  the  country  alone  and  unprotected.  I  have  listened 
to  your  arguments,  my  daughter,  rather  for  the  purpose  of  grati- 
fying you  than  with  the  expectation  of  hearing  anything  which 
has  not  already  suggested  itself  to  my  mind.  This  is  no  sudden 
whim  or  caprice  of  mine,  I  have  long  ago  pondered  what  I 
should  do  in  case  of  a  Federal  occupation.  It  only  remains  now 
for  you  to  say  if  you  will  acquiesce  in  my  decision." 

'•  Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  "  I  will  certainly  do  what  you  think 
best,  and  what  will  most  conduce  to  your  comfort." 

"How  soon  will  you  go,  my  daughter?" 

"Just  as  soon,  papa,  as  you  wish  it." 

"  Can  you  go  to-morrow  ?" 

"To-morrow!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh,  papal  not  so  soon 
as " 

A  glance  at  her  father's  face  of  agony  stopped  her  short ;  and 


CAMERON     HALL.  491 

while  she  was  vainly  trying  to  give  utterance  to  her  willingness 
to  go,  he  murmured,  sadly: 

*'  Yes,  to-morrow.  The  sooner  it  is  over  the  better  for  us  all ! 
Go,  my  children,  go  at  once,"  he  continued,  every  word  costing  a 
struggle,  ''and  get  ready  to  leave  to-morrow." 

Julia  went  up  to  her  father  in  silence,  pressed  a  kiss  upon  his 
quivering  lips,  and  then  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

Kis  eyes  followed  the  retreating  figure  of  this,  his  last  child, 
and  when  she  was  out  of  sight,  the  desolate  old  father  sank  back 
in  his  chair  and  wept  bitterly. 

As  Grace  passed  the  little  organ-room,  she  paused  a  moment 
at  the  threshold  and  looked  wistfully  at  the  open  instrument. 
She  had  no  time  to  play  now,  and  brushing  away  the  tear  from 
her  cheek  and  hastening  on  to  her  duty,  she  murmured: 

"Agnes's  grave,  and  Agnes's  organ !  Two  strong  ties  to  bind 
my  heart  here.     God  help  me  to  go  willingly  !" 

When  Julia  reached  her  room,  the  first  thing  that  she  did  was 
to  throw  herself  upon  the  bed  and  let  her  tears  relieve  her  bur- 
dened heart.  She  had  done  this  so  much  oftener  of  late  than  ever 
before,  that  she  began  to  fear  she  was  losing  her  self-control; 
but  whatever  experience  of  the  discipline  of  life  Julia  might  have 
had  before,  her  troubles  were  now  both  heavier  and  more  numer- 
ous than  they  had  ever  been,  and  this  new  and  most  unexpected 
one  had  made  her  cup  full.  For  the  time  she  forgot  everything; 
forgot  even  that  she  would  be  accessible  to  her  husband.  The 
one  absorbing  thought  was  that  she  was  going  to  leave  her  old 
and  sorrow-stricken  father  alone,  and  that,  too,  at  a  time  when  he 
would  most  need  the  sunshine  of  home  and  the  solace  of  its  ties 
to  counterbalance  the  depressing  influences  around  him.  In  the 
midst  of  her  distress  the  door  opened,  and  Mammy  Xancy  came 
in.  She  paused  a  moment  in  surprise,  and  then  going  up  to  the 
bed,  said,  compassionately: 

"  What's  the  matter,  Miss  Julia  ?  What  you  cryin'  for,  honey  ? 
I  ain't  used  to  seein'  you  cry.  I  thought  for  a  minute  that  'twas 
my  t'other  child,  till  I  remembered  that  she  was  whar  she  can't 
cry  no  more,  thank  God !  What's  the  matter?"  she  repeated,  as 
Julia  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow,  and  sobbed  afresh. 

As  soon  as  she  could  speak,  she  answered : 

"I  am  going  away  to-morrow.  Mammy." 

"  Goin'  away,  child  !  and  whar  is  you  goin'  to  ?'* 

"  Going  far  away;  to  b'e  gone  a  long  time,  and " 

"  Goin'  to  leave  me  and  old  master  by  ourselves !"  interrupted 
the  old  woman  in  amazement.  "  One  of  our  children  in  the 
grave,  the  t'other  one  in  the  war,  and  you,  the  only  one  left,  goin' 
away  from  your  old  father,  your  old  mammy  !     I  didn't  believe 


492  CAMERON     HALL. 

that  you  would  have  the  heart  to  do  sich  a  thing  as  that !  What 
is  you  goin'  for,  child  ?  You  ain't  goin'  to  find  no  sich  another 
father,  and  no  sich  another  old  mammy  as  you  leaves  behind." 

"I  know  that,  Mammy,"  sobbed  Julia.  "I  know  that  well 
enough.  I  don't  want  to  leave  you,  and  I  know  that  my  heart 
will  ache  many  a  time  to  see  you  both  before  I  come  back." 

"  Then  what  makes  you  go,  child?" 

"  Papa  wants  me  to  go.  The  Yankees  are  coming  again,  not 
to  stay  a  few  hours,  but  the  whole  wiuter.  You  know  how  badly 
they  behaved  when  they  were  here  before,  and " 

"I  reckon  I  do!"  she  interrupted.  "I  reckon  that  Til  never 
forgit  that  pile  of  blazin'  meat  while  thar's  breath  left  in  my 
body !  Good  sound  bacon,  the  like  of  which  them  Yankee 
rascals  never  seed  before,  smoked  with  hickory  wood,  and  with 
all  them  hams  sewed  up  in  bags  by  my  own  hands !  Lord,  Lord  !" 
she  exclaimed,  impatiently,  "whenever  I  thinks  of  that  meat  I 
gits  riled  all  over!" 

Mammy's  indignation  had  now  quite  overpowered  her  sym- 
pathy and  compassion,  and  forgetting  everything  except  her 
wrath,  as  she  always  did  whenever  she  recollected  that  scene  of 
destruction,  she  went  on  in  a  tirade  of  mingled  lamentation  and 
abuse,  until  she  was  recalled  to  the  present  by  a  deep  sigh  from 
Julia.  In  turn  her  anger  was  as  quickly  forgotten,  and  intent 
only  on  comforting  the  young  mistress,  whose  distress  was  the 
more  painful  because  it  was  so  unusual,  she  said: 

"  Tell  master.  Miss  Julia,  that  you  don't  want  to  go  away, 
and  then  I'll  be  bound  he  won't  send  you.  He  never  could  cross 
you  hisself,  and  he  wouldn't  let  nobody  else  do  it,  from  the  time 
that  you  was  a  baby  in  the  arms,  and  I  know  he  can't  do  it  now, 
when  you  is  a  woman  grown." 

"  I  have  told  him  that  I  don't  want  to  leave  him;  but  he  says 
that  he  will  be  better  satisfied  if  Grace  and  I  are'  out  of  the  way 
of  the  Yankees." 

"  Miss  Grace  I     Is  she  goin'  too  ?" 

"Yes,  Mammy,  we  are  both  going." 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head  sadly,  and  murmured,  rather 
to  herself  than  to  Julia: 

"Poor  old  master!  Poor  old  master!  I  remember  the  time 
when  he  had  a  young  wife  and  his  children  all  around  him,  and 
when  thar  wasn't  no  time  'twixt  sun-up  and  sun-down  that  you 
couldn't  hear  the  children  laughin'  and  rompin'  in  the  yard. 
Now  wife  dead,  children  some  dead,  and  t'others  gone,  and  he 
left  by  hisself  in  his  old  age !     Poor  old  master!" 

For  this  Julia  had  no  reply  except  a  fresh  burst  of  tears  ;  and 
Mammy's  thoughts  wandered  back  through  long  years,  when  the 


CAMERON     HALL.  493 

DOW  sad  and  silent  Hall  was  lightened  by  children's  happy  faces 
and  gladdened  by  their  innocent  mirth.  They  were  both  silent 
for  several  minutes,  and  then  all  at  once  Mammy's  thoughts  with 
a  sudden  rebound  came  baclx  to  the  present  emergency  with  its 
pressing  necessities. 

"  To-morrow  I"  she  said,  thoughtfully.  "You  give  yoQrself 
mighty  little  time,  Miss  Julia.  1  must  take  my  old  bones  out  of 
this  cheer,"  she  added,  rising  to  go,  "  and  git  down  stars  to  my 
business.  It'll  be  all  I  can  do  to  git  Lucy  ready  to  go  by  to- 
morrow. She's  got  all  her  clothes  in  the  tub  now.  I  'spose  in 
course  you  is  to  take  her  along?" 

"I  should  like  to  do  so.  Mammy,  if  you  are  willing." 

"  Willin',  child  !"  she  replied,  stopping  short  and  looking  at 
Julia  in  amazement.  "  What's  the  reason  I  wouldn't  be  willin'  ? 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  my  sayin'  that  I  wasn't  willin'  for  Lucy  to 
go  anywhar  'long  with  you?" 

"No,  Mammy,  never;  but  times  are  different  now." 

"  How  different.  Miss  Julia  ?" 

"You  know,  Mammy,  that  when  the  Yankees  come,  they  say 
that  they  are  going  to  set  you  all  free,  and  then  you  need  not  go 
anywhere  with  your  master  or  mistress  unless  you  want  to.  I 
will  not  force  Lucy  to  go  with  me  now,  I  will  not  take  her 
unless  you  and  she  are  both  perfectly  willing." 

"  I'll  answer  for  us  both.  I'm  willin',  and  so  is  Lucy,  and  if 
she  ain't,  I'll  make  her  so.  And  as  to  them  Yankees,  Miss 
Julia,"  she  added,  contemptuously,  "don't  tell  me  nothin'  at  all 
about  them  and  their  freedom.  I  don't  believe  nothin'  they  say, 
for  people  that  ain't  got  no  better  sense  than  to  burn  up  good 
sound  bacon,  ain't  got  no  better  principles  than  to  tell  lies ! 
That's  the  gospel  truth  1" 

So  saying,  she  closed  the  door  with  a  most  decided  emphasis, 
and  disappeared. 

Julia  was  in  the  act  of  rising  from  the  bed  to  commence  pack- 
ing, when  Mammy's  head  again  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  You  is  goin'  to  Dixie,  in  course  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  ain't  you  goin'  to  take  nothin'  at  all  to  eat  ?  Folks 
tells  me  that  it's  mighty  nigh  starvation  out  thar  !" 

"  Yes,  Mammy,  I  am  going  to  take  plenty  to  eat,  and  I  want 
you  to  attend  to  that  for  me.  Get  out  of  the  pantry  what  you 
think  will  be  necessary  to  last  us  several  days,  and  tell  Aunt  Sally 
to  cook  her  best  for  me.  It  is  the  last  time,"  she  added,  choking, 
"  that  she  will  do  anything  for  me  in  a  long  time." 

"  Did  you  send  Sally  word  to  put  on  a  ham  ?"  she  asked.  "  It 
ought  to  be  bilin'  this  minute." 

42 


494  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  No,  I  do  not  intend  to  take  a  ham.  There  are  only  two  left, 
and  I  want  papa  to  have  thera." 

"You  shall  have  a  hara,  honey,"  she  answered,  with  a  con- 
scious look,  "  and  master  shan't  miss  none,  neither.  This  old 
nigger  didn't  stand  close  by  that  burnin'  pile  and  watch  it  for 
nothin'I     You  shall  have  a  ham." 

"Very  well.  Mammy,  I  leave  it  all  to  you.  Have  a  plenty  for 
us,  but  don't  be  extravagant.  Remember  that  papa  is  going  to 
stay  at  home,  and  provisions  are  not  so  abundant  as  they  used 
to  be." 

"  You'll  have  enough,  child,  certain,"  she  replied,  closing  the 
door,  "if  old  Mammy  fixes  it!  I  always  did  believe  in  havin' 
plenty  to  eat." 

"  Send  Lucy  here.  Mammy,"  called  Julia. 

The  old  woman  came  deliberately  back,  and  shutting  the  door 
as  if  afraid  of  being  overheard,  she  walked  up  close  to  Julia,  and 
said,  in  a  decided  tone  : 

"Let  me  tell  you  one  thing,  child.  When  Lucy  comes  up 
here,  don't  you  ax  her  if  she  is  willin'  to  go  'long  with  you. 
Jest  tell  her  to  wash  and  iron  her  clothes  and  put  'em  in  her 
trunk,  for  she's  got  to  go  away  with  you  in  the  mornin'.  Don't  be 
puttiu'  no  new-fkugled  notions  in  Lucy's  head.  She's  a  nigger 
now,  she's  got  to  be  a  nigger  all  her  life,  and  all  the  Yankees 
under  heaven  can't  make  her  nothin'  else,  and  'tain't  no  use  to 
make  her  believe  that  she's  while  and  free !" 

When  Uncle  John  came  in  the  afternoon,  great  indeed  was 
his  surprise  at  this  most  sudden  and  unexpected  arrangement. 

"  Who  is  to  be  your  escort,  Grace  ?"  he  asked. 

"Uncle  Billy,"  she  answered,  "is  to  act  in  the  several  capaci- 
ties of  escort,  protector,  and  driver." 

"  Now,  that  shall  not  be  !"  he  exclaimed,  positively.  "  I  am 
not  going  to  have  you  two  knight- erranting  through  the  country 
at  such  a  time  as  this.     I  will  go  with  you  myself  (irst." 

"  Indeed  you  will  not.  Uncle  John,"  said  Julia.  "  The  weather 
is  too  cold,  and  there  is  really  no  necessity  for  it.  I  am  not 
afraid  to  go  with  Uncle  Billy." 

"Nor  need  you  be,  my  daughter,"  said  her  father.  "Billy  is 
old  and  steady  and  faithful,  and  will  take  as  good  care  of  you 
as  I  could.  If  I  did  not  know  this  I  would  not  trust  you  with 
him." 

"Very  well,  girls,"  said  Uncle  John,  smiling,  "you  are  wel- 
come to  my  services  if  they  would  be  agreeaole,  but,  of  course, 
you  are  at  liberty  to  decline  them." 

When  he  went  away,  he  said : 

"  I  like  to  put  off  disagreeable  things  to  the  last  moment,  and 


CAMERON    HALL.  495 

therefore  will  not  say  good-bj  to-night.  You  will  pass  thi^ough 
town  to-moiTow,  and  you  may  stop  at  my  gate  and  we  can  say 
farewell  then." 

Early  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Cameron  was  at  the  stable  exam- 
ining the  carriage  and  harness,  and  giving  minute  directions  to 
the  old  driver,  into  whose  care  he  was  about  to  commit  his 
daughters. 

"  I  have  trusted  you  often  before,  Billy,"  he  said,  "  and  you 
have  never  disappointed  me,  and  I  expect  you  to  be  faithful 
now.  You  will  take  good  care  of  your  young  mistresses,  won't 
you  ?" 

"  Don't  give  yourself  no  uneasiness  about  'em,  master,"  he 
said.  "  If  these  two  old  mules  will  hold  out,  Billy  will  too,  and 
if  I  don't  take  'em  safe,  it'll  be  the  fust  time  that  I  ever  come  out 
wrong  end  foremost." 

Mr.  Cameron  took  leave  of  his  daughters  in  the  library.  In 
all  his  other  sorrows  Julia  had  never  seen  him  so  overpowered, 
and  she  painfully  realized  how  broken  he  was  in  spirit  and  energy 
thus  to  yield  so  unresistingly  to  his  grief. 

The  servants  all  gathered  round  the  carriage  to  say  farewell, 
and  Mammy  encircled  Julia  in  her  arms,  and  pressing  her  to  her 
bosom,  kissed  her  repeatedly,  while  her  tears  fell  fast. 

"Mammy,"  sobbed  Julia,  "don't  go  to  the  Yankees  when  they 
come.  Don't  leave  papa,  the  old  Hall,  and  your  two  last  chil- 
dren. It  would  break  my  heart  to  come  back  and  not  find  my 
old  Mammy  1" 

"Go  to  the  Yankees,  indeed  !"  she  answered,  wiping  her  eyes 
and  bristling  with  indignation  at  the  bare  suggestion.  "  They  may 
fool  some  of  these  young  creturs,  but  they'll  find  Nancy  too  old 
for  'em.  No,  indeed  !  When  I  leaves  my  master  it'll  not  be  to 
go  with  any  fool  that  burns  up  meat !" 

They  were  gone.  As  far  as  she  could  see  the  old  house,  Julia's 
eyes  were- strained  to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  it,  and  when  it  was 
finally  hidden  from  her  view  and  she  had  turned  her  back  upon 
her  childhood's  home,  not  knowing  that  she  would  ever  return  to 
it  again,  or  if  she  did,  that  she  would  find  her  father  and  his  ser- 
vants there  as  she  had  left  them,  she  sank  back  in  the  carriage 
and  wept  bitterly.  When  she  raised  her  eyes  again  they  were 
passing  through  the  grove,  and  the  first  thing  that  she  saw  was 
the  rock  under  the  old  walnut-tree,  so  identified  with  memories 
of  her  childhood,  and  her  childhood's  companions,  Walter  and 
Eva.  She  did  not  look  up  again  until  they  had  stopped  before 
Uncle  John's  gate,  where  he  was  standing,  with  gloves  on,  and 
whip  in  hand. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Uncle  John  ?"  she  asked. 


496  CAMERON    HALL. 

"With  you,  my  daughter.     You  do  not  look  able  to  take  care 

of  yourself,  nor  does  Grace.'' 

"Indeed,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered,  "I  cannot  consent  to 
any  such  arrangement.     It  would  be  selfish  for  me  to  do  so." 

"Your  consent,  Julia,  will  not  affect  my  decision.  I  know," 
he  added,  smiling,  "that  it  is  contrary,  both  to  etiquette  and  to 
custom,  for  a  gentleman  thus  to  persist  in  intruding  his  society 
upon  ladies  when  it  is  so  manifestly  disagreeable ;  but  I  think  that 
the  present  circumstances  will  justify  it.  Drive  on,  Billy;  I  will 
follow." 

So  saying,  he  sprang  into  his  buggy,  and  they  began  their 
journey. 

It  was  a  wild,  unsettled  country  through  which  they  traveled. 
The  road  had  once  been  a  highway,  but  had  for  years  yielded  its 
importance  to  the  railroad.  It  was  now  bad  everywhere,  and  in 
many  places  almost  impassable.  Swollen  streams  without  bridges 
or  ferries,  and  deep  and  dangerous  ruts  and  mud-holes,  rendered 
the  journey  not  only  difficult  and  fatiguing,  but  perilous,  too, 
especially  to  travelers  unacquainted  with  the  country;  and  Uncle 
John  felt  anxious  all  the  time,  and  the  old  driver  kept  his  eye  far 
ahead,  looking  and  hoping  for  a  better  road,  and  more  than  once, 
during  the  first  day,  he  muttered  to  himself: 

"  I  promised  master  to  take  'em  safe,  but  it  looks  like  I  ain't 
gwine  to  do  it  I     I  didn't  bargain  for  no  sich  roads  as  these." 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day,  verging  toward  night- 
fall, and  they  were  still  several  miles  distant  from  the  house  where 
they  expected  to  spend  the  night,  and  a  dark  and  dreary  wood, 
where  the  road  was  entangled  by  brush  and  undergrowth,  had 
still  to  be  traversed.  The  poor  tired  mules  had  been  coaxed 
and  urged  on  until  it  seemed  cruel  to  make  them  quicken  their 
lagging  steps,  and  yet  the  travelers  had  had  such  descriptions 
of  this  forest  that  they  were  extremely  anxious  to  get  through  it 
by  daylight.  They  were  worn  out  as  much  by  apprehetision  and 
anxiety  as  by  fatigue;  but  rest  was  still  far  off,  and  they  looked 
with  dread,  first  upon  the  edge  of  the  wood,  which  now'became 
visible  in  the  distance,  and  then  at  the  sun,  which  was  approach- 
ing the  horizon  far  too  rapidly  for  their  wishes. 

The  carriage  and  buggy  had  just  safely  passed  through  a  deep 
and  dangerous  mud- hole,  and,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  Julia  threw 
herself  back  in  the  carriage  as  she  heard  Uncle  Billy  crack  his 
whip  and  urge  his  mules  to  greater  speed.  They  were  not  des- 
tined, however,  to  go  on  without  further  trouble,  and  their  prog- 
ress was  at  once  arrested  by  shouts  and  screams  from  Bob,  whose 
baggage-wagon  was  stuck  fast  in  the  mud. 

"  Get  up,  Yank  I    Pull  up,  Confed  I"  he  shouted.    "Go  'long, 


CAMERON    HALL.  497 

boys!"  he  repeated,  accompanying  his  exhortation  with  a  blow 
to  each  that  made  their  ribs  resound.  ''Pull  up,  you  lazy  ras- 
cals 1" 

But  entreaties,  blows,  and  reproaches  were  alike  lost  upon  the 
incorrigible  mules,  who  only  reared  and  floundered  at  each  blow, 
sinking  deeper  and  more  hopelessly  at  every  plunge. 

The  difficulty  now  threatened  to  be  a  serious  one.  Deeper  and 
deeper  sank  the  wagon,  and  Bob  now  exchanged  his  words  and 
blows  to  his  mules  for  entreaties  to  Uncle  Billy  to  come  to  his 
relief.  But  the  old  man  did  not  move.  He  stood  up  in  his  seat 
on  the  carriage  and  looked  over  the  top  of  it  with  wrath  and 
contempt  blazing  in  his  eyes,  and  muttering  inaudibly  to  himself. 
After  waiting  a  few  minutes,  Uncle  John  seconded  Bob's  entrea- 
ties, and  said : 

"Can't  you  help  him,  Billy?  "We  must  not  waste  time  here. 
Night  is  coming  on,  and  the  ladies  are  very  tired  and  anxious  to 
get  to  their  stopping-place." 

Thus  exhorted,  old  Billy,  without  a  word  of  reply,  got  down, 
unharnessed  his  own  mules,  and  with  their  assistance  the  wagon 
was,  with  great  difficulty,  extricated  from  the  mud,  and  once 
more  placed  on  terra  firma.  The  harness  was  broken  in  several 
places,  and  he  proceeded  in  silence  to  tie  it  up  with  strings  and 
ropes.  But  the  old  man's  gathering  wrath  could  no  longer  be 
controlled,  and  stopping  suddenly  in  his  work,  he  looked  fiercely 
at  Bob,  and  rolling  his  eyes  at  him,  exclaimed  : 

"  You  stupid,  obstinate,  leather-headed,  punkin-faced " 

He  paused,  either  for  want  of  invectives  or  because  he  thought 
that  the  unfortunate  object  of  his  ire  was  unworthy  even  of  abuse, 
and  turning  to  Uncle  John,  he  said : 

"Master  John,  would  you  b'lieve  it,  sir?  would  you  b'lieve 
that  on  top  of  the  ground  thar  was  a  big  enough  fool  to  'spect  a 
Yankee  and  a  Confed  to  pull  together  in  the  same  harness  ?  And 
yit,  sir,  jest  sich  a  fool  as  that  stands  thar  before  you,"  he  added, 
pointing  with  the  utmost  scorn  to  Bob,  who  stood  with  a  down- 
cast, sheepish  look,  afraid  to  open  his  mouth  in  reply;  "a  thick- 
skull'd  nigger  that  didn't  have  no  more  brains  hisself,  and  when 
I  told  him  better  he  wouldn't  pay  no  attention,  but  thought  that 
old  Billy's  sense  had  done  wore  out  wid  age.  Xow,  sir,  I  told 
him  not  to  harness  them  two  together.  I  told  him  that  jest  as 
sure  as  he  hitched  Yankee  and  Confed  together,  the  very  fust 
tight  place  he  got  into,  one  or  t'other  would  be  sure  to  kick  up 
and  leave  him  and  the  wagon  stalled.  And  sure  enough,  here 
it  is!" 

Uncle  John  could  not  help  laughing,  as  he  replied : 

42* 


498  CAMERON    HALL. 

"And  so  that  is  the  difficnlty,  Billy,  is  it  ?  Bob  has  harnessed 
a  Yankee  and  a  Confederate  together!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  answered,  waxing  more  and  more  indignant; 
"  that  is  jest  it,  and  I  tell  you  that  if  them  trunks  in  that  wagon 
hadn't  belonged  to  them  thar  ladies  that  I  promised  master  to 
take  care  of,  that  chap  and  his  mules  might  have  stuck  in  the 
mud  till  judgment-day  before  old  Billy  would  have  helped  'em 
out  I  And,"  he  added,  looking  at  Bob  as  if  he  were  about  to 
seize  hira,  "  I've  a  great  mind  to  pitch  you  back  in  thar  anyhow ! 
If  I  only  had  somebody  else  to  drive  the  wagon,  I'd  do  it  sure, 
and  leave  you  thar  till  I  come  along  agin.  Maybe  by  studyin' 
Mjout  it  for  three  or  four  days  in  a  mud-hole  on  a  empty  stom- 
ach, you'd  find  out  better  next  time  than  to  'spect  a  Yankee 
and  a  Confed  to  pull  the  same  way,  you  leather-headed  rascal, 
you !" 

Uncle  John  was  heartily  amused,  and  even  his  companions,  sad 
and  tired  as  they  were,  could  not  help  joining  in  the  laugh.  But 
old  Billy  was  in  sober  earnest. 

"  Don't  laugh.  Master  John,"  he  said.  "  Sich  stupidness  as 
that  ain't  no  laughin'  matter." 

"And  yet,  Billy,"  answered  Uncle  John,  "Bob  is  not  the  only 
fool  in  the  world.  I  know  some  statesmen  who,  at  this  very  day, 
believe  that  a  Yankee  and  a  Confed  can  be  made  to  pull  to- 
gether." 

"  Some  who,  Master  John  ?" 

"Some  statesmen,  Billy." 

"And  who  is  they  ?     Is  they  white  people  ?'^ 

"Yes,  Billy,  white  men." 

"Well,  the  Lord  help  'em  I"  said  the  old  man  compassionately. 
"If  they  never  finds  out  before  what  fools  they's  been,  they'll  find 
it  out  in  the  fust  mud-hole  that  they  come  to,  sure  I  One  or 
t'other  '11  kick  up,  sartain  I" 

The  harness  was  now  mended,  and  everything  in  readiness  to 
resume  their  journey,  but  old  Billy,  with  the  loquacity  of  his  race, 
showed  no  disposition  to  stop  talking  until  he  was  again  reminded 
by  Uncle  John  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  He  mounted  on  his 
seat,  and  gathering  up  the  reins,  flourished  his  whip  with  appar- 
ent carelessness,  but  with  so  accurate  an  aim,  that  the  end  of 
the  lash  came  into  stinging  contact  with  Bob's  hand.  Thus  ad- 
monished, he  quickly  found  his  place,  and  the  travelers  proceeded 
on  their  journey. 

Just  at  sunset  they  reached  the  wood.  It  was  already  night 
in  its  dark  and  gloomy  recesses,  and  as  he  was  about  to  enter, 
old  Billy  drew  up  for  an  instant,  and  glancing  at  a  scarcely- 
defined  road,  beset  with  stumps  and  undergrowth,  he  muttered  : 


CAMERON    HALL.  m  499 

"A  feller  who's  gwine  to  drive  over  that  road  for  the  fust  time 
in  the  night,  ought  to  stop  right  here  and  say  his  prayers.  Them 
stumps  looks  like  they  was  planted  thar  jest  a  purpose  to  make 
a  man  upset  1" 

The  road  wa-s  indeed  a  diflScult  and  dangerous  one,  and  it  often 
seemed  as  if  with  all  his  watchfulness  and  skill,  the  careful  old 
driver  could  not  get  through  safely.  Before  long,  thick,  black 
night  settled  down  upon  them,  and  they  could  not  see  their 
horses'  heads.  Billy,  who  was  in  advance,  now  stopped  and 
called  out: 

"'Tain't  no  use  to  try,  Master  John.  A  owl  couldn't  see  'long 
here,  and  I  can't  drive  another  step  widout  a  light.  I  never 
could  see  no  sense,"  he  grumbled,  "in  makin'  any  sort  of  a  car- 
riage widout  lamps.  If  this  here  barouche  had  lamps  I  could 
strike  a  light  and  go  on,  but  I  ain't  willin'  to  risk  it  in  the  dark 
with  these  ladies." 

"I  have  candles  and  matches,  Uncle  Billy,"  said  Julia.  "You 
shall  have  a  light  in  a  minute." 

"But  I  can't  do  nothin'  with  it,  Miss  Julia,  when  I  gits  it. 
Thar  ain't  no  lamps,  and  the  wind  would  blow  it  out  in  a  minute." 

"But  I  will  get  out  and  carry  it  in  front  of  the  carriage  so  that 
you  can  see  how  to  drive." 

"Now,  Miss  Julia,"  he  said,  "you  know  that's  impossible.  The 
last  thing  master  said  to  me  was,  that  he  trusted  you  to  me,  and 
I  must  take  good  care  of  you,  and  I  promised  to  do  it.  It 
wouldn't  look  like  it,  sure,  for  me  to  let  you  git  out  of  the  car- 
riage in  the  dead  o'  night  and  walk  along  to  light  the  road.  You 
walkin'  and  me  ridin' !     No,  no,  that  won't  do." 

"  Well,  let  Lucy  do  it,  then,"  said  Uncle  John.  "  She  can  carry 
a  candle." 

"That's  the  very  idea  !"  exclaimed  old  Billy  in  delight.  "  Git 
out  of  that  carriage,  Lucy,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  authority,  "  and 
tote  that  candle,  and  tote  it  steady  toa,  and  let  it  go  out  if  you 
dar." 

Lucy  took  the  candle,  and  walked  on  a  few  minutes,  when  a 
gust  of  wind  extinguished  the  feeble  light,  and  left  them  in  utter 
darkness. 

Old  Billy  was  furious. 

"You  blockhead,  you  I"  he  shouted.  "That  candle  never 
would  have  blowed  out  in  my  hand  I  Lord  !  Lord  !"  he  added, 
wonderingly,  as  if  trying  to  account  for  the  superior  wisdom  of 
which  he  felt  himself  possessed,  "what  is  the  reason  that  niggers 
has  to  git  most  old  enough  to  die  'fore  they  has  any  sense  at 
all  ?" 

"Never  mind,  Uncle  Billy,"  said  Julia,  soothingly,  "we  will 


500  CAMERON    HALL. 

try  again.  Lucy  and  I  will  each  take  a  caudle,  and  then  if  one 
should  be  blown  out  the  other  will  be  left." 

This  time  he  made  no  objection  to  the  proposition,  and  watched 
her  in  silence  as  she  lighted  the  caudles ;  but  when  he  saw  her 
wrap  her  shawl  tightly  around  her  as  she  shivered  with  cold,  he 
shook  his  head  and  said,  deprecatingly  : 

"'Tain't  right,  Miss  Julia;  sure  as  you're  born,  'tain't  right  1 
I  hope  master  won't  blame  me  for  this,  for  indeed  I  don't  see 
nothiu'  else  to  be  done.  If  I  don't  have  a  light  I'll  have  to  stay 
right  here  all  night,  that's  sure  !" 

"And  this  is  a  great  deal  better,  Uncle  Billy,"  she  answered 
cheerfully,  "than  staying  here  all  night.  Drive  on  now,  and  we 
will  soon  be  over  this  bad  road." 

So  saying,  she  and  Lucy  walked  on  in  front,  and  their  candles 
lighted  the  road  so  that  he  could  drive  safely.  They  shielded 
them  carefully  with  their  hands,  and  for  a  little  while  they  burned 
brightly  and  steadily,  but  another  unexpected  blast  extinguished 
them  both  at  once,  and  again  they  were  left  in  darkness. 

The  company  of  her  mistress  fortunately  saved  Lucy  this  time 
from  censure  and  invective ;  but,  obliged  to  lay  the  blame  some- 
where, Billy  now  began  to  abuse  the  candles. 

**  Caudles  ain't  no  account  nohow,  and  never  was !"  he  mut- 
tered ;  "  I'd  rather  have  one  good  blaziu'  pine  torch  than  all  the 
candles  in  old  Yirginny  !" 

"  That  is  a  good  idea,  Billy,"  said  Uncle  John,  "and  I  will  act 
upon  it.     You  shall  have  pine  torches." 

They  were  soon  procured,  and  now  the  bright,  red  glare  blazed 
up  high,  and  lighted  the  road  some  distance  ahead.  The  mules 
were  urged  on,  and  Lucy  and  her  mistress  found  it  difficult  to 
drag  their  aching  limbs  along  fast  enough  to  keep  ahead  of  the 
carriage. 

The  road  seemed  interminable,  and  when,  to  their  great  relief, 
they  emerged  from  the  wood  on  the  other  side,  it  was  still  found 
impossible  to  drive  over  it  without  a  light.  For  three  weary  miles 
the  patient  guides  dragged  themselves  along  without  murmur  or 
complaint,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  in  this,  their  first  experi- 
ence of  exile,  they  should  have  thought  wistfully  aud  longingly, 
and  it  may  be  tearfully  too,  of  the  rest  and  shelter  and  comfort 
of  that  home  so  far  behind.  At  last,  faint  with  exhaustion  and 
benumbed  with  cold,  they  reached  the  expected  shelter,  whose 
repose  and  refreshment  were  not  merely  acceptable,  but  were  now 
absolutely  necessary  to  the  worn-out  travelers. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  they  drove  into  the  little  vil- 
lage that  was  the  end  of  their  toilsome  journey.  Julia,  more 
dead  than  alive,  was  leaning  back  in  the  carriage  with  her  eyes 


CAMERON    HALL.  501 

closed,  when  she  was  suddenly  aroused  by  Uncle  Billy's  voice 
exclaiming : 

"  Jest  look  yonder,  Miss  Julia  !  Sure  as  you're  born,  yonder 
is  Master  Charles  standing  on  them  steps  I" 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  and  there,  on  the 
steps,  sure  enough,  stood  Charles  Beaufort.  Julia  uttered  a  low 
cry  of  joy,  and  was  received,  almost  fainting,  in  his  arms. 

The  next  morning  Charles  accompanied  Julia  and  Grace  to 
Kichmond,  where  his  father  was  to  meet  them  and  take  them  to 
his  home  in  South  Carolina. 

The  parting  with  Uncle  John  was  opening  their  wounds  afresh. 
Encompassed  with  so  many  unusual  dangers  and  uncertainties, 
the  farewells  of  friends  at  that  time  were  no  ordinary  adieus, 
brightened  by  the  anticipation  of  coming  reunion.  They  were 
more  like  the  mournful  separations  of  death  and  the  grave,  and 
when  hearts  and  families  were  sundered,  then  the  bitterness  of 
parting  was  intensified  by  the  painful  uncertainty  that  overhung 
all  the  future. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

• 

A  FEW  days  after  Uncle  John  reached  home  the  enemy  came 
into  Hopedale,  and  their  active  operations  in  making  themselves 
comfortable  argued  indeed  a  long  sojourn.  The  most  eligible 
situations  in  and  around  the  town  were  selected  for  encampments; 
tents  were  pitched,  and  soldiers  busy  in  bailding  chimneys,  whose 
fuel  was  to  be  partially  supplied  by  the  fences  of  the  town  and 
the  plantation  fence-rails  of  the  adjoining  country.  Lists  were 
taken  of  all  the  property  holders  of  secession  principles,  and  in 
some  instances  the  family  were  ordered  to  leave  their  home,  which 
was  appropriated  by  Federal  oflficers,  and  in  others  they  were  all 
confined  to  two  or  three  rooms,  and  the  remainder  of  the  house 
occupied  by  the  enemy.  As  soon  as  they  were  settled  in  the 
town,  as  naturally  as  water  seeks  its  level,  the  soldiers  of  the 
Federal  army  sought  theirs  in  the  society  of  the  kitchens  and 
negro  cabins  of  the  Southern  gentlemen.  Nor  was  this  confined 
to  the  rank  of  private.  Straps  and  stars  were  not  unfrequently 
to  be  found  in  close,  familiar  conversation  with  the  negro  upon 
the  street,  or  sitting  cosily  by  the  kitchen  fire,  apparently  most 
agreeably  entertained  by  their  sable  companions.     Arguments, 


502  CAMERON    HALL. 

entreaties,  persuasions,  and  the  most  alluring  promises  were  all 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  credulity  of  the  negro,  and  in  most 
cases  succeeded  in  persuading  hira,  under  the  name  of  freedom, 
to  leave  the  home  where  he  had  been  reared,  and  to  exchange  the 
old  master,  who  thoroughly  understood  his  habits  and  disposi- 
tion, for  a  new  one,  who  was  unacquainted  with  his  nature,  and 
could  make  no  allowance  for  his  peculiarities. 

Uncle  John's  house  was  speedily  appropriated.  A  flippant 
young  officer  came  to  take  possession  of  all  the  vacant  rooms, 
and  thinking  the  gray-haired  rebel  a  suitable  mark  for  his  youth- 
ful wit,  he  indulged  it  accordingly.  Uncle  John  did  not  often  lose 
his  dignity,  and  for  some  time  he  listened  in  placid  silence ;  but  at 
last  even  his  patience  and  forbearance  were  exhausted,  for  as  yet 
all  this  was  new  to  Uncle  John,  as  well  as  to  other  Southern  men, 
and  it  required  months  of  pressure  beneath  the  iron  heel  to  teach 
them  to  bear  in  silence  Yankee  impertinence  and  oppression. 
When  at  length  he  did  speak,  there  was  both  in  his  tone  and  words 
something  so  biting] y  caustic,  so  keenly  sarcastic,  that  it  stung  to 
the  quick,  and  if  his  boyish  enemy  had  dared,  his  revolver  would  in 
an  instant  have  sent  a  ball  through  his  heart.  As  it  was,  he  said 
not  a  word  in  reply,  but  only  glared  savagely  at  him,  and  instantly 
left  the  house.  The  next  day.  Uncle  John  was  officially  notified 
that  his  entire  house  was  required  for  the  use  of  the  United 
States  Government.  He  was  allowed  one  hour  to  remove  his 
effects,  which  gave  him  ample  time,  since  he  was  not  permitted  to 
take  anything  away  except  his  wearing  apparel.  Furniture,  plate, 
and  books  were  all  ordered  to  be  left ;  and  when  he  walked  into 
the  library  at  Cameron  Hall,  with  a  valise  of  clothing  in  one 
hand  and  his  umbrella  and  cane  in  the  other,  he  laughingly  showed 
Mr.  Cameron  all  his  worldly  possessions,  and  asked  him  if  he 
could  give  food  and  shelter  to  a  homeless  wanderer. 

Mr.  Cameron,  while  he  could  not  but  regret  the  cause  that  had 
brought  Uncle  John  to  the  Hall,  was  nevertheless  compelled  to 
rejoice  in  the  result,  for  his  first  few  days  of  lonely  solitude  had 
made  him  realize  to  what  an  intolerable  life  he  was  now  con- 
demned. There  is  no  loneliness  so  oppressive  as  to  sit  alone  in 
a  large  house  which  was  once  accustomed  to  resound  with  the 
merry  laugh  and  the  cheerful  voice,  now  so  still  that  the  beating 
of  one's  own  heart  can  be  heard,  or  to  wander  through  its  empty 
halls  and  deserted  rooms,  listening  to  the  echo  of  one's  own 
footsteps.  Often  at  his  solitary  meals,  or  as  he  sat  hour  after 
hour  alone  in  the  library,  or  wandered  over  the  plantation  with 
no  companion  but  Carlo,  who  was  himself  a  continual  reminder 
of  other  and  happier  days,  Mr.  Cameron  had  felt  convinced  that 
he  could  not  bear  this  long,  and  therefore  it  was  that  Uncle  John, 


CAMERON    HALL.  503 

always  welcome  at  the  Hall,  had  never  been  in  his  life  half  so 
welcome  as  when  he  appeared  with  his  valise  in  his  hand. 

"  Welcome,  my  dear  sir,  welcome  !"  was  the  hearty  response  to 
his  laughing  petition  for  food  and  shelter.  "  Never  did  a  forlorn 
and  lonely  prisoner  pine  more  for  fresh  air  and  freedom  than  I 
have  done  for  a  companion.  The  Yankees  have  done  you  a 
great  wrong,  Uncle  John,  but  I  am  constrained  to  admit  that 
they  have  at  the  same  time  conferred  a  favor  upon  me." 

"  Don't  let  the  obligation  burden  you,  my  dear  sir,"  he  answered, 
smiling,  "for,  as  the  Irishman  said  when  he  was  thanked  for  a 
kindness,  'You're  welcome  to  it,  man,  but  faith  I  didn't  mane  itP 
I  have  no  idea  that  the  Federals  were  looking  out  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  oblige  you  when  they  turned  me  out  of  my  house." 

Several  weeks  had  passed  since  then,  and  the  two  gentlemen 
had  thus  far  remained  personally  unmolested  at  Cameron  Hall ; 
but  every  day  parties  of  straggling  soldiers  came  out  on  pillaging 
expeditions,  and  to  persuade  the  negroes  to  accept  that  freedom 
which  they  were  sent  to  offer  them.  Some  needed  no  persuasion 
but  eagerly  accepted  the  offered  boon,  and  with  that  improvidence, 
which  is  as  much  a  characteristic  of  the  negro  in  old  age  as  it  is 
in  childhood,  they  would  throw  their  bundle  of  clothes  across 
their  shoulder  and  turn  their  backs  upon  their  old  homes,  going 
they  knew  not  where  or  to  what,  except  that  they  were  "  gwine  to 
freedom/"  But  others  who  were  less  credulous  and  ignorant 
had  to  be  plied  with  stronger  arguments  and  more  persevering 
efforts.  No  means  were  left  untried,  no  objections  unanswered,  * 
no  expectations  without  a  promise  of  complete  and  speedy  ful- 
fillment. The  work  was  prosecuted  with  an  energy  and  constancy 
of  purpose  worthy  of  a  better  cause,  and  in  most  cases  finally 
triumphed.  Many  who  at  first  turned  a  deaf  ear  alike  to  their 
persuasions  and  promises  were  at  last  overcome,  for  negro  sim- 
plicity, credulity,  and  ignorance  cannot  contend  successfully 
against  Yankee  cunning,  craftiness,  and  duplicity.  But  while 
they  thus  succeeded  in  alluring  many  away  from  their  homes, 
they  still  found  themselves  unsuccessful  in  the  main  object  of 
enlisting  negro  recruits.  However  anxious  to  be  free,  the  negro 
still  had  an  unconquerable  aversion  to  being  shot;  and  although 
his  ear  and  heart  were  open  to  the  pleasant  imaginary  pictures 
of  the  wealth  and  luxury  that  awaited  him  in  his  future  state  of 
freedom,  yet  when  he  was  told  that  these  had  to  be  purchased 
by  the  risks  and  dangers  of  the  battle-field,  the  glittering  bait  lost 
much  of  its  luster.  There  was  something  so  real,  so  palpable,  so 
terrifying  in  the  cannon's  yawning  mouth,  the  keen-edged  bayo- 
net, and  the  exploding  shell,  that  these  present  horrors  generally 
quite  obscured  the  ease  and  enjoyment  of  the  elysium  that  lay 


504  CAMEROX    HALL. 

beyond.  Thus  it  was  that  the  enlistment  progressed  slowly,  and 
finding  their  persuasions  so  long  in  taking  effect,  and  the  winter 
gradually  passing  away,  they  finally  determined  at  once  to  con- 
script a  negro  regiment,  and  by  constant  and  careful  dililing  to 
prepare  it  for  service  in  the  approaching  spring  campaign. 

The  negroes  now  finding  that  their  so-called  friends  were  re- 
solved to  use  force  in  compelling  them  to  a  service  for  which 
they  had  no  inclination,  resorted  to  every  subterfuge  and  device 
to  elude  the  conscription.  They  feigned  sickness,  physical  disa- 
bility, and  infirmity  of  every  kind;  and  when  these  failed,  they 
tried  concealment,  and  it  not  unfrequently  happened  that  a  family 
would  be  all  at  once  startled  by  a  negro  (sometimes  one  of  their 
own  and  sometimes  a  stranger)  rujhing  into  the  house  and 
beg;;:ing  for  a  place  to  hide  from  the  Yankees  who  were  in  pur- 
suit of  him. 

It  was  late  in  January,  one  of  those  wintery  days  of  clear, 
bright  sunshine,  when  the  earth,  bleak,  sterile,  and  ice  bound  as  it 
is,  wears  almost  a  spring  smile.  Mr.  Derby  sat  in  his  study  look- 
ing through  the  window  upon  the  scene  without.  There  was 
nothing  of  beauty  in  the  wintery  landscape,  nor  would  he  have 
seen  it  if  there  had  been,  for  his  thoughts  were  otherwise  oc- 
cupied. His  countenance  was  sad,  his  heart  heavy,  his  spirit 
worn  and  weary  with  the  struggle  to  preserve  his  Ciiristian  temper 
amid  these  trying  scenes  and  circumstances ;  for  Mr.  Derby,  though 
a  sincere  Christian,  was  still  a  man,  and  his  human  nature  often 
rebelled  and  chafed  with  the  feeling  of  helplessness  under  tyranny 
and  wrongs,  and  he  needed  the  voice  of  God  speaking  to  him 
from  the  pages  of  His  own  book  to  subdue  the  impatience  and 
to  quell  the  tumult  in  his  heart.  His  prayer-book  lay  open  be- 
fore him  at  what  had  of  late  become  its  accustomed  page.  He 
often  read  and  pondered  the  fourth  selection  of  psalms,  wiiose 
inspired  words  seemed  dictated  specially  to  meet  the  peculiar 
circumstances  and  temptations  by  which  he  was  surrounded. 

When  forbearance  was  exhausted,  and  he  was  sick  at  heart 
with  the  wrong,  and  robbery,  and  insult  all  around  him,  his  im- 
patience was  quelled  by  the  gentle  admonition :  "  Fret  not  thy- 
self because  of  the  ungodly,  neither  be  thou  envious  against  the 
evil-doers,  for  they  shall  soon  be  cut  down  like  the  grass  and  be 
withered  even  as  the  green  herb.  Hold  thee  still  in  the  Lord 
and  abide  patiently  upon  Him,  but  grieve  not  thyself  at  him 
whose  way  doth  prosper  against  the  man  that  doeth  after  evil 
counsels." 

When  anxiety  had  seized  him,  and  looking  upon  his  wife  and 
helpless  children  he  wondered,  with  painful  uncertainty,  how  and 
where  in  that  desolated  and  ravaged  country  he  was  to  get  bread 


CAMERON    HALL.  505 

to  sustain  their  life,  his  apprehensions  were  lulled  by  those 
words,  so  beautifully  blending  precept  and  promise  :  "Put  thou 
thy  trust  in  the  Lord,  and  be  doing  good ;  dwell  in  the  land,  and 
verily  thou  shalt  be  fed.  The  Lord  knoweth  the  days  of  the 
godly,  and  their  inheritance  shall  endure  forever.  They  shall  not 
be  confounded  in  the  perilous  time,  and  in  the  days  of  dearth  they 
shall  have  enough." 

When  sometimes  aggravated  beyond  endurance,  and  his  human 
passions  triumphing  for  the  moment,  he  longed  with  his  own 
hand  to  avenge  the  tyranny  and  oppression  which  bound  his  soul 
"  fast  in  misery  and  iron,"  he  was  taught  to  wait  patiently  by 
God's  own  assurance:  "The  arms  of  the  ungodly  shall  be  broken. 
Their  sword  shall  go  through  their  own  heart,  and  their  bow 
shall  be  broken." 

Now  as  ever  heretofore,  the  words  of  promise  and  of  comfort 
had  stolen  down  deep  into  the  minister's  heart,  and  brought  with 
them,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  quiet  and  peace. 

He  was  suddenly  startled  from  his  reverie  by  an  exclamation 
of  alarm,  as  his  servant  Charles  rushed  into  the  room,  saying : 

"  Hide  me,  master !  for  God's  sake,  hide  me  I  The  Yankees  are 
coming  after  me." 

Before  Mr.  Derby  could  answer,  his  wife  followed  the  servant, 
saying  : 

"  Come  here,  Charles,  and  I  will  tell  you  where  to  go." 

She  whispered  something  in  his  ear,  he  darted  out  of  the  room 
like  an  arrow,  and  the  whole  scene  was  so  like  a  lightning-flash, 
that  Mr.  Derby  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was  realit}^.  Before 
he  had  quite  recovered  himself,  a  violent  ring  at  the  bell  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  Charles's  dreaded  pursuers,  whom  Mr. 
Derby  himself  went  to  receive. 

"  Good  morning,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  resisting  that  instinctive 
impulse  of  the  Southern  gentleman  to  invite  across  his  threshold 
every  person  who  comes  to  his  door.    "  What  will  you  have  ?" 

"You  can  guess  what  we  want,"  was  the  rough  response. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Derby,  willing  to  prolong  the  parley,  so  as 
to  giv^e  Charles  time  to  reach  his  hiding-place,  wherever  it  might 
be,  "indeed  I  will  be  obliged  to  trouble  vou  to  tell  me  the  ob- 
ject  of  your  visit.  You  know,"  he  added,  smiling,  "that  we 
Southerners  do  not  profess  to  be  as  skillful  at  'guessing'  as  your 
nation." 

"  Look  here.  Bill !"  exclaimed  one  of  them,  "what  is  the  use  of 
bartering  words  with  that  old  man  ?  We've  no  time  to  waste  that 
way.  Now,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  squaring  himself  before  Mr. 
Derby,  and  striking  his  sword  with  a  clang  against  the  floor, 
"we've  come  for  that  colored  man  who  ran  in  here  a  few  minutes 

43 


506  CAMEROX    HALL. 

ago.     Don't  say  that  he  isn't  here,  for  we  saw  him  come  in,  and 
we  are  going  to  have  hira.    So  be  in  a  hurry,  and  deliver  him  up." 

Here  one  of  the  number  interposed,  and  seemingly  ashamed 
both  of  his  mission  and  his  comrade's  roughness,  said: 

"  We  are  sorry  to  intrude  upon  you,  sir,  in  this  way,  but  we  are 
acting  under  orders,  which  compel  us  to  impress  every  able-bodied 
negro  man  between  the  ages  of  eighteen  and  forty-five.  I  regret 
my  mission,  sir,  but  it  is  'a  military  necessity.'" 

Mr.  Derby  could  not  forbear  smiling  at  this  convenient  phrase, 
with  which  he  had  now  become  so  familiar,  and  which,  most  un- 
like charity  in  every  other  respect,  resembled  it  at  least  in  this, 
that  it  "  covered  a  multitude  of  sins ;"  but  before  he  had  time  to 
reply,  he  was  prevented. 

"  Come,  come,  John,  will  you  stop  your  talk  and  search  these 
premises?  And  see  here,  stranger,  you  had  better  produce  that 
negro  forthwith,  for  if  I  do  not  find  him  here,  I  swear  that  I  will 
burn  this  house  over  your  head.  So  bring  him  out,  and  be  quick 
about  it  too,  for  we  have  already  wasted  more  time  with  you  than 
a  rebel  and  a  secesh  nigger  both  together  are  worth." 

Mr.  Derby  bit  his  lip,  and  made  no  reply,  but  looked  with  a 
feeling  of  mingled  pity  and  contempt  upon  this  minion  of  despotic 
power,  and  silently  awaited  their  further  movements. 

"  Will  you  give  up  that  colored  man  or  not?" 

"  Certainly  not,  if  he  has  fled  to  my  house  or  my  premises  for 
protection." 

"  Then  I  will  search  your  house  ;  every  part  of  it,  from  the 
garret  to  the  cellar." 

"Very  well,  sir,  I  cannot  prevent  it." 

"And  if  I  do  not  find  him,  you  know  what  I  will  do  to  this 
house." 

"You  have  the  power;  I  am  defenseless." 

"  Will  you  give  him  up  ?" 

"I  will  not." 

They  now  entered  the  house,  went  into  every  room,  looked  into 
every  closet  and  under  every  bed,  and  when  the  object  of  their 
search  was  nowhere  to  be  found,  they  recommenced  their  exam- 
ination; and  as  if  by  way  of  compensation  for  their  disappoint- 
ment, thev  re-enacted  the  same  scene  that  Cameron  Hall  had  once 
witnessed.  The  contents  of  bureau-drawers  and  wardrobes  were 
tossed  upon  the  floor,  books  were  scattered  all  over  the  house, 
and  a  wild  scene  of  confusion  disfigured  that  usually  peaceful  and 
well-ordered  household. 

Mrs.  Derby,  with  her  frightened  children  clinging  to  her,  fol- 
lowed on  in  silence,  watching  with  surprise  and  indignation  this 
strange  invasion  of  the  sanctities  of  her  home. 


CAMERON    HALL.  507 

The  last  room  that  they  visited  was  the  study,  and  the  minister 
could  scarcely  repress  an  expostulation  as  he  saw  his  valuable 
theological  books — valuable  not  only  in  their  intrinsic  worth  to 
him  in  his  profession,  but  dear  to  him  as  counselors,  teachers, 
comforters,  friends — tossed  in  wild  confusion  and  irreverence  over 
the  floor.  Hitherto  he  had  felt  only  indignant,  but  nov(^  he  was 
really  distressed,  and  he  involuntarily  uttered  a  groan  as  his  eyes 
followed  a  magnificent  volume  cf  "The  Fathers,"  as  it  went  spin- 
ning and  whirling  across  the  room. 

Just  then  the  officer  called  out : 

*'  Come,  my  men,  this  is  enough  of  this  sort  of  work.  The 
negro  is  certainly  not  in  the  house,  and  while  we  are  wasting 
time  here  he  may  have  escaped  altogether.  To  the  kitchen  and 
stable,  boys  !     Look  for  him  there." 

All  the  others  rushed  out,  but  the  one  whom  they  called  John, 
and  who  seemed  to  have  a  remnant  of  conscience  and  feeling  still 
left,  lingered  behind.  He  had  not  participated  in  the  work  of 
destruction,  but,  standing  apart,  had  looked  on  the  scene,  watch- 
ing alternately  his  comrades  and  the  minister.  He  had  heard 
Mr.  Derby's  groan,  and  now  coming  up  to  him,  he  said : 

"I  regret  this  extremely,  sir,  and  would  most  gladly  keep 
away  from  all  such  employment.  I  entered  the  army  to  fight 
against  rebels,  and  not  to  insult  and  injure  innocent  men  and 
helpless  women  and  children.  I  have  not  assisted  in  this  work, 
and  if  I  could,  I  would  have  immediately  withdrawn  from  those 
who  were  engaged  in  it.  Our  orders  were  to  conscript  negroes, 
and  not  to  upset  households  and  frighten  women  and  children. 
This  whole  scene  is  outrageous  and  disgraceful,  and  I  am  ashamed 
of  it." 

Mr.  Derby  could  not  doubt  the  man's  sincerity,  for  his  face 
expressed  his  feelings  more  plainly  even  than  his  words.  He  was 
about  to  answer  him,  when  aloud  scream  announced  that  Charles's 
hiding-place  had  been  at  last  discovered.  Hastening  to  the 
place  of  arrest,  Mr.  Derby  found  him  vainly  struggling  between 
two  soldiers. 

When  his  master  reached  him,  Charles  grasped  him  with  both 
hands,  beseeching  him  to  protect  him,  and  protesting  that  he  did 
not  want  to  go. 

"  My  poor  boy,"  said  Mr.  Derby,  sadly,  "how  willingly  would 
I  protect  you  if  I  could  I  But,  Charles,  I  cannot  help  you  any  more 
than  you  can  help  yourself.  If  they  choose  to  take  you  away,  I 
cannot  prevent  it." 

"Oh,  yes  you  can,  master  !  You  can  make  'em  let  me  go.  I 
won't  leave  my  wife  and  children,  my  home  and  master,  to  fight  for 
Yankees." 


508  CAMERON    HALL. 

"You  are  not  going  to  fight  for  Yankees,  Sambo,"  said  one 
of  them,  jeeriugly.  "  You  are  going  to  fight  for  your  own  free- 
dom, and  the  Yankees  are  going  to  help  you  do  it.  That  is  the 
way  of  it." 

"  I  don't  want  no  more  freedom  than  I've  got  already,"  said 
Charles,  doggedly,  "  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  fight  for  it  neither  I" 

"  You  won't,  won't  you  ?  AVell,  Sambo,  we'll  soon  see  about 
that.     Here  boys,  tie  his  hands." 

"  Not  yet,  master  !"  he  pleaded  piteously,  "  not  yet !  Jest  let 
me  talk  to  you  a  little  while  fust." 

Not  unwilling  to  prolong  the  scene,  that  he  might  still  longer 
enjoy  the  agony  of  his  helpless  victim  and  his  no  less  distressed 
master,  the  soldier  answered  : 

"  Well,  talk  on.     I  am  ready  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

With  that  accurate  knowledge  of  human  nature  which  the 
negro  possesses  instinctively,  Charles  had  perceived  in  an  instant 
that  his  air  of  sullen  defiance  would  rather  aggravate  than  modify 
his  present  distress  and  danger,  and  so  exchanging  it  at  once  for 
an  expression  of  abject  submission  and  humility,  he  replied  : 

"I  only  wants  to  argufy  the  pint  a  little,  master.  Will  you 
please,  sir,  to  tell  me  whose  notion  it  is  to  set  all  we  colored 
people  free  ?" 

"  Mr.  Lincoln,  the  President  of  the  Fnited  States,  has  already 
done  it.  He  has  proclaimed  you  all  as  free  as  he  is  himself,  or  as 
that  man  standing  there  who  calls  himself  your  master." 

"  What  made  Mr.  Lincoln  take  sich  a  pertikelar  fancy  to  our 
color?     No  white  man  never  done  that  before." 

''  Because  there  are  not  many  people  in  the  world  as  good  as 
Mr.  Lincoln.  He  thinks  that  it  is  high  time  for  you  al'  to  be 
free,  and  sees  no  reason  that  you  should  be  slaves  just  because 
your  skin  is  dark.  All  good  people  are  tired  of  seeing  you  op- 
pressed and  trampled  upon  by  your  cruel  secesh  masters,  who 
think  no  more  of  separating  husbands  and  wives  and  parents  and 
children  than  if  you  were  a  parcel  of  dogs." 

"  Master,  what  is  you  gwine  to  do  wid  me  now  ?"  asked  Charles, 
not  seeming  to  heed  this  last  remark. 

"  We  will  send  you  to  cam.p,  where  you  will  be  taught  to 
fight,  and  then  you  shall  have  the  privilege  of  fighting  for  your 
freedom." 

"  Is  you  gwine  to  let  me  take  my  wife  and  children  to 
camp  ?" 

"  Not  exactly,"  replied  the  soldier,  laughing. 

"  Then,  master,"  said  the  negro,  **  Mr.  Lincoln  will  be  the  fust 
one  to  separate  me  from  my  wife  and  children.  It  ain't  never 
been  done  before  by  my  secesh  master." 


CAMERON    HALL.  509 

This  seemed  for  the  instant  rather  unanswerable;  but  in  a 
moment  the  soldier  recovered  himself,  and  replied : 

"  Not  at  all.  White  soldiers  do  not  take  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren to  camp.  They  wait  until  they  have  done  fighting,  and 
then  go  home  to  their  families  proud  and  happy." 

"  But  'spose  they  gits  killed,  what  then  ?" 

"  Then  they  die  a  glorious  death,  and  are  buried  in  a  soldier's 
grave," 

Charles  shook  his  head  as  if,  in  his  estimation,  the  glory  by  no 
means  counterbalanced  the  awful  event;  but  he  did  not  answer. 
Presently  he  said,  suddenly ; 

"  So,  then,  master,  if  I  understands  you,  Mr.  Lincoln's  done 
offered  us  all  freedom." 

"Yes,  all  without  exception, — men,  women,  and  children." 

"It's  mighty  good  in  him,"  replied  Charles,  thoughtfully,  "and 
I,  for  one,  am  mightily  obliged  to  him ;  but  what's  offered'to  you, 
you  ain't  bound  to  take  unless  you  wants  it.  i!^ow  let  them  what 
wants  freedom  go  to  freedom;  but,  master,  if  you  please,  I'd 
rather  stay  whar  I  is." 

Charles  finished  his  argument  with  a  quod  erat  demonstran- 
dum air,  that  under  other  circumstances  would  have  been  inde- 
scribably ludicrous ;  bat  at  present  his  vain  expedients  to  per- 
suade and  reason  with  his  captors  only  added  a  keener  pang  to 
the  severance  of  the  tie  that  bound  him  to  his  master's  heart. 
He  was  only  a  few  years  younger  than  Mr.  Derby,  and  had  been 
born  and  reared  in  his  childhood's  home;  and  when  the  young 
master  had  left  the  paternal  roof  to  make  his  own  way  in  the 
world,  of  all  the  family  circle,  his  servant  alone  could  accom- 
pany him.  Together  they  had  traveled  thus  far  on  the  journey 
of  life.  No  thought  of  separation  except  by  death  had  ever 
entered  the  mind  of  either  master  or  slave.  Their  interests  were 
identified,  and  Charles  always  spoke,  as  his  master  did,  of  "our 
children,"  "our  house,"  "our  garden,"  as  if  he  were  joint  pro- 
prietor, and  so  he  felt  himself  to  be,  and  indeed  was,  in  all  save 
expense  and  responsibility.  Mr.  Derby  had  performed  the  cere- 
mony when  Charles  was  married,  had  baptized  and  buried  his 
children ;  and  in  the  tie  that  bound  him  to  his  servant,  the  min- 
istet  realized  what  the  Apostle  meant  when  he  exhorted  Phile- 
mon to  regard  Onesimus  "  not  as  a  servant,  but  above  a  servant, 
a  brother  beloved." 

The  master  now  stood  looking  on  this  remarkable  scene  with 
a  darkened  brow  and  a  bitter  feeling  of  helplessness  which  he 
had  never  before  experienced.  The  disrespectful  word,  the  con- 
temptuous sneer,  he  had  received  with  a  quiet  smile ;  the  intru- 
sion upon  the  privacy  of  his  home  and  the  wanton  destruction 

43* 


510  CAMERON    HALL. 

of  his  property  he  had  witnessed  without  a  word  of  complaint  or 
an  entreaty  to  desist;  but  this  was  atrial  harder  to  bear  than 
personal  insult  or  loss  of  property.  The  excited  Southern  blood 
boiled  in  his  veins,  and  his  indignant  heart  swelled  almost  to 
bursting,  as  he  crushed  back  the  words  of  bitter  reproach  that 
struggled  to  his  lips,  and  which  he  would,  at  the  instant,  have 
given  worlds  to  utter.  But  he  restrained  it  all,  and  like  his 
Master,  the  minister  "answered  nothing." 

The  only  reply  that  Charles  received  to  that  conclusion  of 
his  argument  which  was  so  entirely  satisfactory  to  himself,  was 
the  imperative  command,  enforced  by  a  rough  touch  upon  the 
arm: 

"Come  along,  Sambo,  we're  going  now." 

"Goin'  whar,  master  ?" 

"  Why,  with  us  to  be  sure.  That  is  what  we  came  for,  and 
that  is  what  you  have  to  do." 

"But,  master,  I  don't  want  to  go,     I  prefers  to  stay." 

"That  makes  no  difference;  you  will  have  to  go." 

"I  won't  go  one  step,"  he  answered,  his  former  sullenness  all 
returning,  and  struggling  vainly  to  get  away.  "I  won't  go  one 
step.     If  you  takes  me,  you'll  have  to  tote  me." 

"  There's  a  way  of  making  you  go  without  toting  you,  old 
feller,"  said  one  of  the  men,  clicking  his  pistol.  "  This  little 
article  has  never  yet  failed  to  make  men  walk,  and  walk  fast, 
too." 

Mr.  Derby  now  became  seriously  alarmed,  for  the  pistol  was 
in  the  hands  of  a  ferocious-looking  creature  by  whom  bloodshed 
might  be  regarded  as  pastime,  and  so,  approaching  Charles,  he 
said: 

"Go,  my  poor  boy,  go.  It  is  useless  to  resist,  and  it  will  only 
make  your  time  the  harder." 

He  extended  his  hand,  which  was  eagerly  grasped  by  Charles, 
and,  in  a  choking  voice,  Mr.  Derby  said : 

"  Good-by,  Charles, — good-by,  my  faithful  boy!  God  bless 
you  I  and  if  we  never  see  each  other  again  in  this  world,  may  we 
meet  in  that  better  one  where — "  he  could  not  restrain  the 
words,  they  would  force  themselves  out — "where  tyranny  and 
oppression  are  unknown  !" 

"  Hallo,  there !"  exclaimed  he  with  the  pistol.  "  That's 
treason  you're  talking,  and  by " 

The  remainder  of  the  sentence  was  lost  in  the  mingled  cries 
and  lamentations  of  Charles  and  the  children,  who  just  began  to 
realize  that  he  was  really  going  away. 

His  hands  were  crossed  and  tied,  and  with  a  guard  on  each 
side,  he  was  led  away. 


CAMERON    HALL.  511 

"  Oh,  master  I"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  tone  and  look  of  reproach, 
"  is  you  gvvine  to  let  'em  take  me  ofif,  sure  enough  ?" 

^  "  Charles,  Charles,"  replied  his  master,  stung  to  the  quick, 
"indeed  I  cannot  help  it.  If  I  could,  believe  me  that  you  should 
never  leave  me." 

"Won't  you  go  to  the  gineral  and  git  me  off?" 

"I  will  try,  Charles,  if  you  wish  it;  but  it  will  do  no  good. 
He  wiil  not  let  you  come  back  to  me." 

"Yes,  sir,  he  would.  I  know  he  would  I  Try,  master,  only 
promise  to  try,  and " 

His  entreaties  grew  fainter  and  fainter  as  he  was  borne  away 
from  his  master  and  his  home ;  but  even  after  his  words  had  be- 
come inaudible,  his  pleading  tones  came  back  to  his  master's  ear 
and  smote  him  to  the  heart. 

"This  is  absolutely  intolerable  I"  exclaimed  Mr.  Derby  to  his 
wife,  as  the  last  one  of  the  soldiers  passed  out  of  the  gate.  "  If 
I  could  only  make  him  understand  my  helplessness ;  if  I  could 
only  convince  him  that  no  entreaties  of  mine  would  avail  any- 
thing, I  could  bear  it  better ;  but  to  see  him  go  off  believing 
firmly  that  his  master  can  control  Yankee  soldiers  as  easily  as  he 
has  ever  governed  him,  and  yet  will  not  try  to  rescue  him,— this 
is  intolerable,  absolutely  intolerable  I" 

When  they  returned  to  the  house,  they  were  at  once  reminded 
of  the  necessity  of  action,  and  they  had  just  succeeded  in  clearing 
a  space  large  enough  for  the  dinner-table,  when  Mr.  Cameron 
came  in. 

He  looked  around,  and  only  said: 

"  Yankee  spoliation,  of  course  !" 

"Even  so,"  replied  Mr.  Derby,  sadly.  " This  seems  bad  enough, 
but  It  IS  nothing  to  the  scene  through  which  I  have  just  passed 
with  my  boy  Charles,  whom  they  have  taken  away." 

"I  saw  the  poor  fellow  in  the  street  as  I  came  along.  His 
wife  and  children  had  just  heard  the  news,  and  were  clin°ging  to 
him,  crying  and  screaming,  and  refusing  to  be  comforted  by 
Yankee  promises  of  speedy  reunion.  When  he  saw  me'he  called 
out,  begging  me  to  plead  with  the  general,  and  to  tell  you  to  do 
the  same,  and  he  seemed  to  feel  sure  that  our  united  efforts  would 
be  successful.  I  have  just  passed  through  the  same  scene  on  my 
plantation,  and  I  scarcely  know  what  brought  me  to  town  unless 
it  was  a  heart-sick  longing  to  change  the  scene  ;  but  it  has  been 
no  change,  for  I  find  the  same  thins:  going  on  here.  Poor 
negroes!"  he  added,  thoughtfully,  "victims  of  a  so-called  phi- 
lanihropy,  from  my  soul  I  pity  them !" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Derby,  "they  are  truly  to  foe  pitied.  With 
his  attachment  to  home,  his  improvidence,  his  indolent  nature, 


512  CAMERON    HALL. 

and  his  dependence  npon  'master'  for  everything,  the  negro  will 
truly  be  an  object  of  profouudest  pity,  when  in  a  strange  land  he 
shall  have  awakened  from  his  golden  dreams  of  freedom  to  find 
himself  naked,  freezing,  starving,  and  to  long  with  unutterable 
but  hopeless  longing  for  his  old  log-cabin,  his  blazing  fire,  his 
*  patch,'  his  poultry-yard,  but  above  all,  for  his  old  master  !  Were 
any  of  yours,  sir,  willing  to  go  ?" 

"  Oh  yes !  A  great  many  went  not  only  willingly,  but  gladly; 
others  with  stolid  indifference ;  and  a  few  with  a  struggle  that  it 
almost  broke  my  heart  to  witness.  For  those  who  wanted  to 
leave  me,  I  have  neither  a  regret  nor  a  feeling  of  sympathy,  and 
if  ever  I  hear  of  their  suffering,  I  will  listen  to  the  tale  without  an 
emotion  of  pity." 

"  I  differ  with  you  there,  Mr.  Cameron.  I  feel  profoundly 
sorry  for  them  all.  Negroes,  like  children,  are  credulous,  and 
their  imagination  is  easily  caught  by  an  attractive  picture.  Yoa 
know  what  promises  have  been  made  them, — of  farms,  coaches 
and  horses,  elegantly  furnished  houses,  and  the  advantages  of 
education  I  Accustomed  to  be  provided  for,  without  forethought 
or  anxiety  of  their  own,  they  do  not  stop  to  ask,  as  any  other 
race  of  beings  would,  who  is  to  supply  all  these  things;  but  they 
repose  quietly  in  the  belief  that  Master  Lincoln  or  some  other 
master  will,  for  the  mere  love  of  them,  give  them  all  these  promised 
luxuries,  just  as  their  former  master  has  supplied  them  with  the 
necessaries  of  life.  Indeed,  Mr.  Cameron,  taking  into  considera- 
tion the  nature  of  the  negro,  and  the  temptations  brought  to  bear 
upon  him,  I  must  acknowledge  that  I  am  neither  surprised  nor 
indignant  that  so  many  should  swallow  the  glittering  bait." 

"  Under  the  circumstances,  Mr.  Derby,  I  am  surprised.  Credu- 
lity I  know  is  a  ctriking  characteristic  of  the  race,  and  if  the 
Abolition  army  had  never  deceived  them,  I  should  not  wonder  at 
their  being  misled  by  these  alluring  promises.  But  at  the  very 
moment  that  they  are  promising  them  everything  that  their  cu- 
pidity can  desire,  the  soldiers  are  pillaging  their  cabins  and 
stealing  from  them  everything  valuable  that  they  possess, — some- 
times even  their  'Sunday-clothes.'  Now,  here  is  such  a  gross 
and  palpable  contradiction  between  promises  and  actions,  that  it 
would  seem  as  if  the  most  obtuse  negro  upon  earth  could  not  fail 
to  see  the  inconsistency;  and  when  in  spite  of  all  this  I  see  them 
willing  and  even  anxious  to  go  off  with  their  so-called  friends,  I 
confess  that  I  have  no  pity,  but  see  them  go  with  a  sort  of  grim 
satisfaction  in  the  thought  of  what  is  certainly  in  store  for  them. 
It  is  only  for  those  who  were  torn  away  by  force  from  me  and 
from  their  home,  that  I  feel  any  pity;  and  their  own  helpless- 
ness, together  with  that  of  the  master  upon  whose  protection 


CAMERON    HALL.  513 

they  have  always  been  accustomed  to  rely,  and  whose  failure  to 
help  them  now  they  can  never  be  made  to  understand,  has  been 
to  me  this  day  the  severest  struggle  of  my  life.  Xever  before 
have  I  been  called  to  bear  anything  like  it;  and  when  I  saw  those 
negroes  dragged  off,  and  heard  their  piteous  cries  for  the  help 
which  I  could  not  give  them,  I  confess,  sir,  that  for  the  moment 
I  felt  more  like  a  demon  than  a  man,  and  if  my  power  could  then 
have  been  made  commensurate  with  my  will,  and  my  arm  nerved 
with  omnipotence,  the  w^hole  Yankee  nation  would  have  been 
annihilated  in  an  instant." 

"It  is  very  hard  to  bear  sir, — very,  very !"  repeated  Mr.  Derby, 
as  if  every  word  came  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart, 

"Ah,  Mr.  Derby,"  said  his  companion,  "how  much  sickly  senti- 
mentalism  has  been  wasted  upon  the  oppression  of  the  poor  slave, 
and  especially  upon  the  merciless  separation  of  families  !  but  you 
and  I,  slaveholders  as  we  are,  and  have  been  all  our  lives,  have 
seen  more  of  it  during  the  reign  and  rule  of  their  Yankee  friends 
than  we  ever  saw  before.  Oh,  Philanthropy!  Oh,  Religion!" 
he  added,  bitterly,  "how  much  wrong,  and  robbery,  and  injustice 
are  often  perpetrated  under  your  sacred  names  I" 

"  Unfortunately,  that  is  true,  Mr.  Cameron  ;  and  this  war  is  a 
painfal  illustration  of  how  much  ivrong  may  be  done  under  the 
name  of  right,  how  much  oppression  under  the  name  of  liberty. 
Whatever  fictitious  and  specious  titles  may  have  been  given  to  it 
to  insure  its  sanction  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  the  facts  have  at 
last  developed  it  to  be  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  crusade 
against  the  slaveowner.  To  liberate  the  slave  from  a  cruel 
bondage  is  now  its  avowed  purpose ;  to  despoil  and  impoverish 
his  master  is  its  real  object;  and  to  effect  this,  the  slave  himself 
is  unhesitatingly  sacrificed." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Derby,  and  to  prove  this  truth  you  need  only  point 
to  the  position  assigned  the  negro  brigades  before  Yicksburg, 
and  elsewhere,  where  they  have  been  made  literally  breast-works, 
behind  which  their  loving  white  brethren  intrenched  themselves 
and  protected  their  own  more  valuable  lives.  Ah,  sir !  for  how 
much  woe  and  weeping,  for  how  much  misery  and  bloodshed,  for 
how  much  tyranny  and  oppression,  is  Puritan  fanaticism  responsi- 
ble in  beginning  and  carrying  on  this  fearful  war!" 

"Truly,"  replied  Mr.  Derby,  thoughtfully,  "Puritanism  has 
much  to  answer  for  in  this  matter." 

"It  is  responsible  for  it  all,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  with 
earnestness.  "This  war  can  all  be  traced  to  that  bigotry  and 
fanaticism  which  would  bind  the  galling  chains  of  its  own  no- 
tions and  prejudices  upon  the  hearts  and  consciences  of  the  whole 
world.     Now,  sir,  if  slavery  be  a  sin,  that  is  our  business,  not 


514  CAMERON    HALL. 

theirs.  We  are  responsible  to  God,  and  not  to  them  for  it ;  we  are 
the  transgressors,  and  on  our  heads  would  the  penalty  rest;  and 
if  their  godly  precepts,  enforced  by  the  power  of  their  stainless 
example,  cannot  persuade  their  blind  and  erring  brethren  to  leave 
off  their  great  transgression,  then  let  these  pious  Puritans  con- 
tent themselves  with  removing  far  away  from  the  contagion,  and 
like  the  Pharisee  of  old,  with  uplifted  heart  and  eye,  thank  God 
that  they  are  not  as  other  men,  nor  even  as  the  Southerner  !  Ah, 
Mr.  Derby!  if  these  Puritans  would  only  imitate  their  Divine 
Lord,  and  temper  their  pretended  zeal  for  His  cause  with  that 
gentleness  which  Himself  enjoined ;  if  they  would  only  in  the 
lesser  matter  follow  the  example  which  He  has  set  them  in  the 
greater,  and  propagate  their  opinions  as  He  did  His  religion, 
by  argument  and  entreaty,  instead  of  compelling  men  by  fire  and 
sword,  then  perhaps  we  might  listen;  and  even  if  unconvinced, 
we  would  at  least  believe  in  their  sincerity  and  respect  their 
honesty.  But  such  a  course,  however  sanctioned  by  the  Holy 
Redeemer,  comports  not  with  Puritan  sanctity  and  Puritan 
bigotry.  Individuals,  nations,  the  world,  nay,  even  the  Word 
of  God  itself,  must  be  amended  to  suit  Puritan  notions,  and 
whoever  dares  believe  that  slavery  is  right,  when  the  Puritan 
has  pronounced  it  wrong,  must  be  punished  for  his  presumption 
and  impiety.  May  God  in  His  great  mercy  defend  our  nation, 
regenerated  in  the  baptism  of  blood,  from  all  admixture  of  Puri- 
tanism !  May  He  save  our  Southern  Confederacy  from  all  Puri- 
tan influence  in  Church  and  State  I  Everywhere,  and  in  all  times 
and  circumstances,  may  He  defend  us  from  the  moral  taint  of 
Puritanism!" 

The  minister,  while  he  responded  heartily  to  every  word  of  his 
friend,  could  not  forbear  smiling  at  his  mingled  bitterness  and 
earnestness.  He  saw  that  Mr.  Cameron  was  greatly  excited,  and 
even  in  the  midst  of  his  own  depression  Mr.  Derby  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  indulge  in  that  quiet  humor  which  he 
always  enjoyed.     So  he  said,  with  a  smile,  but  in  a  serious  tone : 

"You  are  hard,  Mr.  Cameron,  upon  the  descendants  of  the 
crew  of  the  May-Flower;  those  noble  Pilgrim  Fathers,  whose 
heroism,  fortitude,  courage,  and,  above  all,  brave  determination 
to  have  'freedom  to  worship  God,'  have  been,  since  the  founda- 
tion of  the  Republic,  held  up  to  the  love  and  reverence  of  South- 
erners ;  first  in  the  picture-books  of  the  nursery,  then  in  the  school- 
books  of  our  academies  and  colleges,  and  finally  in  the  poetry, 
painting,  and  sculpture  which  form  the  more  elevated  pleasures 
of  our  maturity.  Indeed,  sir,  you  ought  not  to  speak  so  disre- 
spectfully of  our  Puritan  Fathers!" 

Mr.  Cameron  looked  up  in  surprise.     Such  sentiments  were 


CAMERON    HALL.  515 

not  what  he  expected  from  his  friend ;  indeed,  he  felt  sure  that 
they  quite  contradicted  what  he  had  often  heard  hira  express 
before;  but  he  now  spoke  so  seriously,  that  Mr.  Cameron  was 
for  the  moment  completely  baffled.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Derby  en- 
joyed his  perplexity,  and  watched,  with  a  subdued  twinkle  of  the 
eye,  his  increased  excitement,  aggravated,  as  it  evidently  was,  by 
his  own  most  unexpected  want  of  sympathy. 

"No  fathers  of  mine,  sir!"  answered  Mr.  Cameron,  hastily. 
"Thank  God,  there  is  neither  a  drop  of  Puritan  blood  in  my 
veins  nor  a  particle  of  Puritan  spirit  in  my  nature !  If  I  know 
myself,  I  am  willing  to  accord  to  others  that  liberty  of  thought 
and  action  which  I  demand  for  myself,  and  instead  of  trying  to 
bind  upon  my  neighbors  my  own  private  notions  and  prejudices, 
I  rather  try  to  square  my  own  life  and  conduct  to  the  principles 
of  truth  and  justice.  No,  sir!"  he  added,  "I  claim  neither  part 
nor  parcel  in  the  Pilgrim  Fathers." 

Mr.  Derby  now  laughed  outright,  and  said : 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  you  are  not  an  artist,  Mr.  Cameron.  If  you 
were,  I  would  at  once  employ  your  skill  upon  a  picture  to  hang  in 
my  study.  I  should  like  very  much  to  have  an  embodiment  of 
your  idea  of  a  Puritan." 

"If  my  skill  in  execution,  Mr.  Derby,  only  equaled  my  accu- 
racy of  conception,  you  would  have  a  picture  true  to  the  life.  I 
would  bring  out  upon  the  canvas  the  self-sufficiency  which  ac- 
knowledges no  equal ;  the  sourness  which  curdles  the  milk  of 
human  kindness  in  the  heart;  the  bigotry  which  allows  to  none 
other  the  liberty  of  thought  that  it  arrogates  to  itself;  and  the 
fanaticism  which  dares  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  all  decrees,  both 
human  and  divine,  which  do  not  square  with  the  'higher  law'  of 
its  ovrn  devising.  How  would  you  like  such  a  picture  for  your 
study  ?" 

"It  is  quite  too  grim  and  sour,"  answered  Mr.  Derby,  laugh- 
ing, "to  be  the  presiding  genius  of  my  sanctum.  When  I  em- 
ploy your  artistic  skill,  it  must  be  upon  a  more  pleasing  subject. 
When  I  proposed  this,  I  did  not  suppose  that  the  picture  would 
be  all  shadow.  I  thought  that  you  would  find  something  to 
lighten  it." 

"Well,  sir,  tell  me  something.  I  want  to  do  him  justice.  If 
you  will  only  tell  me  any  characteristics  that  will  relieve  those 
shadows,  I  will  gladly  add  them  to  my  picture." 

"  Then,  sir,  don't  you  think  that  we  can  at  least  accord  to  the 
Puritan  a  stern,  unrelenting  honesty  and  consistency  ?  These  I 
believe  are  generally  conceded  to  his  character." 

"He  has  not  shown  them,  Mr.  Derby,  in  the  conduct  of  this 
war.     You  see  that  I  proceed  upon  the  principle  that  we  are  in- 


516  CAMERON    HALL. 

debted  to  the  Puritan  for  the  commencement  of  the  war,  and  to 
Puritan  influence  for  its  prosecution.     Let  us  look  first  at  the 
honesty  which   he  has  shown.     There  was  in  the  beginning  a 
great  hue  and  cry  about  the  Constitution.    To  preserve  this  in  its 
integrity,  to  guard  this  time-honored  legacy  of  our  forefathers,  this 
safeguard  of  our  rights,  was  the  avowed  purpose  of  the  war. 
Now,  however,  it  is  becoming  every  day  more  and  more  appar- 
ent what  its  real  object  is,  and  has  been  from  the  beginning.     A 
portion  even  of  that  same  Puritan  press  which  was  at  first  loudest 
and  fiercest  in  its  cries  for  the  support  of  the  Constitution,  now 
openly  acknowledges  it  to  be  a  war  for  the  abolition  of  slavery ; 
while  the  Democratic  party,  finding  itself  hopelessly  entangled  in 
a  war  upon  false  pretenses,  inveighs  with    bitter   denunciation 
against  the  Yankee  cunning  and  the  Puritan  dishonesty  which 
combined  to  deceive  them.     So  much  for  Puritan  honesty.     Now 
let  us  look  at  its  consistency.     While  the  war  was  commenced 
for  the  avowed  purpose  of  supporting  the  Constitution,  in  the 
prosecution  of  it  every  right  guaranteed  to  the  people  by  that 
instrument  has  been  disregarded,  every  safeguard  thrown  down, 
every  restraint  upon  executive  power  utterly  ignored.     Nor  is 
this  inconsistency  any  less  remarkable  now  since  the  real  object 
of  the  war  has  been  acknowledged  to  be  the  abolition  of  slavery. 
Puritan  philanthropy  sickens  at  the  name  of  slave.     His  tender 
heart  and  enlightened  conscience  give  him  no  rest  until  he  has 
come  to  burst  the  negro's  fetters;  to  make  him  a  glorious  free- 
man;  to  bid  him  stand  forth  the  equal  of  his  master,  the  com- 
panion of  his  oppressor !    Oh,  glorious  cause !     Oh,  magnani- 
mous champion  1     He  comes  to  release  from  ignoble  bondage  the 
stalwart,  well-fed,  happy  negro ;  and  a  few  weeks  later, — oh,  beau- 
tiful consistency ! — he  places  that  same  negro  between  the  can- 
non's mouth  and  himself,  and  as  the  freeman  is  blown  to  atoms 
he  bids  him  rejoice  that  he  does  not  die  a  slave  !    No,  Mr.  Derby, 
honesty  and  consistency  certainly  cannot  lighten  my  picture.    You 
must  think  of  something  else." 

"You  are  embittered  now,  Mr.  Cameron,"  replied  the  minis- 
ter. "  You  are  writhing  and  smarting  under  wrongs,  and  perhaps 
incapable  of  doing  our  oppressors  justice." 

"Smarting  under  wrongs  I  certainly  am,  Mr.  Derby;  but  I 
trust  that  even  this  would  not  blind  me  to  the  good  if  there  were 
any.  On  the  contrary,  I  would  like  to  find  it,  like  to  look  at  it 
even  in  an  enemy ;  for,  believe  me,  it  is  neither  my  habit  nor  my 
pleasure  to  picture  human  nature  so  dark." 

"  I  know  that  very  well,  Mr.  Cameron,  and  my  knowledge  of 
your  character  and  disposition  only  convinces  me  how  intolerable 
must  be  your  grievances  thus  to  have  embittered  you.     I  confess, 


CAMERON    HALL.  517 

sir,  that  it  is  very  hard,  nay,  perhaps  impossible,  for  unassisted 
human  nature  to  bear  patiently  the  trials  and  indignities  to  which 
we  are  now  subjected.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  found,  long  ago, 
that  my  only  safeguard  was  to  look  beyond  and  above  these  human 
instruments,  to  Him  who  sitteth  on  the  heavens,  and  holdeth  the 
nations  in  His  hand.  When  I  think  of  them,  the  fiercest  pas- 
sions of  my  nature  are  stirred ;  when  I  remember  that  *  the  Lord 
is  King,'  I  can  trust  myself,  my  family,  my  nation  in  His  hand, 
satisfied  that  He  will,  in  the  end,  work  out  this  difficult  problem 
satisfactorily  to  us  all.  He  is  scourging  our  nation  now  most 
severely;  but  if  we  receive  the  chastening  as  coming  from  Him, 
and  faithfully  and  honestly  try  to  learn  the  lessons  that  He  is 
teaching,  I  believe  that  this  Southern  people  will  come  out  of  the 
furnace  as  'silver  that  is  purified  seven  times  in  the  fire.'  The 
furnace  is  hot,  but  He  sitteth  as  the  refiner  and  purifier,  and  His 
purpose  is  to  purge  and  not  to  consume." 

"In  a  great  national  calamity  like  this,"  replied  Mr.  Cameron, 
"there  are  so  many  lessons  to  be  learned  that  I  should  think  it 
would  be  almost  impossible  to  remember  them  all." 

"  That  is  true,  and  perhaps  in  the  experience  of  individuals  the 
lessons  may  be  as  varied  as  the  difl'erent  circumstances  and  dispo- 
sitions; but  I  refer  particularly  to  the  great  national  lessons,  those 
that  are  so  patent  that  'he  who  runs  may  read.'  It  seems  to  me 
that  God  is  dealing  very  plainly  with  us  now,  and  is  at  once  re- 
buking our  national  pride  and  teaching  us  dependence." 

"Dependence  1"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cameron.  "Indeed,  my  dear 
sir,  I  should  rather  think  that  we  are  being  taught  self-dependence  ; 
for  if  ever  I  saw  a  nation  struggling  with  all  its  determination 
and  energy  to  help  itself,  it  is  the  Southern  Confederacy  at  this 
moment." 

"  That  is  true,  Mr.  Cameron.  Kight  nobly  and  manfully,  and 
right  successfully,  too,  is  our  country  struggling ;  and  yet,  in  the 
retreating  waves  of  the  Red  Sea,  in  the  manna  rained  upon  the 
desert,  in  the  smitten  rock  and  the  sweetened  waters,  I  scarcely 
recognize  a  more  direct  interposition  of  Providence  than  in  the 
successful  manner  in  which  we  have  been  thus  far  enabled  to  re- 
sist an  invading  foe.  If  ever  a  nation  upon  earth  has  been  taught 
that  God's  blessing  and  favor  can  equalize  all  odds,  and  compen- 
sate for  all  deficiencies,  that  nation  is  our  own  ;  and  if  by  our  ex- 
ample we  afford  encouragement  to  others  to  try  and  help  them- 
selves under  all  disadvantages,  and  against  all  adverse  circum- 
stances, we  are  no  less  a  monument  to  the  nations,  that  against 
God's  protection  and  favor  arms  and  munitions  of  war  are  of  no 
avail.  Without  arms  or  equipments,  without  even  the  necessary 
clothing  for  the  army,  without  the  sympathy,  assistance,  or  even 

44 


518  CAMERON    HALL. 

countenance  of  the  other  nations  of  tlie  earth,  alone  and  unbe- 
friended  by  human  aid,  we  found  ourselves  opposed  to  an  enemy 
richly  abounding  in  everything  necessary  for  conquest.  Surely 
our  experience  thus  far  in  this  unequal  contest  ought  to  have 
taught  us  Who  it  is  that  giveth  victory  in  the  day  of  battle. 
Surely  we  ought  to  have  learned  by  this  time  to  put  our  trust 
neither  in  chariots  nor  in  horses,  but  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  our 
God.  I  confess,  Mr.  Cameron,  that  when  I  hear  the  self-confi- 
dent boasting  that  talks  about  an  invincible  people,  a  nation  that 
cannot  be  conquered,  a  proud,  high-spirited,  chivalrous  race  that 
may  be  exterminated  but  never  subdued,  I  tremble,  not  for  the 
final  result,  but  for  fear  that,  like  rebellious  Israel,  it  may  be  de- 
creed that  none  of  this  generation  shall  enter  into  the  promised 
rest  of  freedom  and  independence.  But  when  on  the  other  hand 
I  read  the  words  of  reverent  acknowledgment  wherewith  our 
great  and  honored  Lee  ever  announces  a  victory  to  the  chief 
magistrate  of  the  nation  :  '  God  has  again  crowned  our  arms  with 
success  ;'  '  God  has  granted  us  another  victory,' — then,  sir,  I  ac- 
knowledge that  I  feel  as  thankful  for  the  message  as  I  do  for  the 
event  which  it  announces.  A  single  victory  is  by  no  means  a 
pledge  of  ultimate  success ;  but  such  a  spirit  of  reverent  depend- 
ence upon  God  animating  our  leaders,  and  infused  by  them  into 
the  people,  seems  to  me  a  sure  harbinger  of  the  final  result.  I 
believe  that  the  nation  is  learning  its  lesson  of  dependence.  I 
have  watched  anxiously  from  the  beginning  to  see  what  moral 
efi'ect  this  struggle  was  to  have  upon  the  peopje,  and  I  think  it  is 
very  evident  that  among  all  classes,  from  our  rulers  down,  there 
is  now  a  much  stronger  reliance  upon  God  for  success,  and  a 
much  more  grateful  acknowledgment  of  His  interposition  in  the 
hour  of  victory,  than  there  was  at  first.  Especially  is  this  to  be 
remarked  in  the  army.  Now,  if  we  will  only  prove  ourselves  as 
ready  and  willing  to  learn  our  other  lesson,  and  surrender  our 
national  pride,  then  indeed  we  may  hope  that  our  chastening  has 
not  been  in  vain." 

"National  pride!"  repeated  Mr.  Cameron.  "Indeed,  sir,  I 
cannot  believe  that  this  feeling  is  wrong.  Who  could  help  being 
proud,"  he  added,  enthusiastically,  "of  such  a  country,  such  a 
people,  such  an  army  ?  Who  would  not  be  proud  to  belong  to  a 
nation  that  has  shown  so  much  determination,  so  much  energy, 
so  much  fortitude,  so  much  valor?  Mr.  Derby,  all  my  life  long  I 
have  loved  to  hear  myself  called  a  Southerner;  but  I  tell  you,  sir, 
that  in  these,  my  country's  darkest  days,  I  love  it  better  than  ever. 
It  alwavs  makes  me  stand  two  inches  taller." 

Mr.  Derby  smiled,  as  he  replied : 

"  I  find  no  fault  with  that  sort  of  national  pride,  Mr.  Came- 


CAMERON    HALL.  519 

ron.  Indeed,  it  can  scarcely  be  legitimately  called  pride,  for  the 
proper  appreciation  of  any  blessing  whatsoever  is  rather  a  duty 
than  a  sin,  and  up  to  a  certain  point  your  feeling  is  not  only  nat- 
ural, but  right.  The  only  danger  is  of  allowing  it  to  run  into  the 
extreme  of  self-sufficiency  and  self-reliance.  But  I  refer  to  that 
sort  of  national  pride  (or  vanity,  rather,  for  that  is  the  more  cor- 
rect term)  which  has  made  the  United  States  a  by-word  among 
other  nations ;  that  vanity  which  found  nothing  anywhere  upon 
earth,  whether  of  natural  scenery,  of  the  useful  arts  and  sciences, 
of  luxury  and  elegance,  of  literature  or  the  fine  arts,  superior  or 
even  comparable  to  what  it  had  at  home.  Nor  did  this  feeling 
stop  here ;  otherwise  it  would  have  been  a  harmless  vanity  which 
would  only  have  made  its  possessor  ridiculous,  and  awakened  a 
mingled  feeling  of  pity  an.l  contempt.  But  it  swelled  into  a  self- 
reliance,  self-importance,  and  self-satisfaction  which  often  made 
us  insolent  and  overbearing  in  our  intercourse  with  other  nations, 
and  worse  still,  sometimes  tempted  us  to  aggression  and  unjust 
acquisition  of  territory,  because  we  felt  secure  in  our  power  to  sus- 
tain ourselves  in  any  course  of  action.  This  I  believe  to  be  one 
of  the  sins  of  which  we,  as  formerly  belonging  to  the  United 
States,  were  guilty,  and  which,  in  the  growth  of  our  young  na- 
tion, we  must  earnestly  try  to  exterminate." 

*'  Our  national  vanity  was  indeed  excessive,"  replied  Mr.  Cam- 
eron ;  "  but  then,  sir,  you  must  admit  that  there  was  much  in  the 
marvelous  growth  of  our  Republic  to  create  and  foster  this  feel- 
ing. For  a  nation  not  yet  a  hundred  years  old  to  take  its  place 
side  by  side  in  wealth,  power,  and  greatness,  with  others  that  were 
far  advanced  in  civilization  and  refinement  before  its  own  vast 
solitudes  had  ever  been  trodden  by  the  foot  of  the  white  man,  would 
seem  indeed  cause  enough  to  excite  vanity.  The  fable  of  Min- 
erva springing  from  the  head  of  Jupiter  in  full,  vigorous  matu- 
rity, and  even  armed  with  the  weapons  necessary  to  make  her 
strength  respected  and  feared,  is  the  only  counterpart  of  the 
American  nation  that  the  world  has  ever  known,  either  in  truth 
or  fiction.  Indeed,  sir,  I  do  not  wonder  that,  as  a  nation,  we  were 
vain." 

"  The  temptation  was  a  strong  one,"  replied  the  minister,  "but 
this  neither  excuses  nor  palliates  the  sin." 

"  But,  Mr.  Derby,  neither  this  nor  any  other  national  sin  was 
confined  to  our  section  of  the  country.  How  comes  it,  then,  that 
we  are  not  only  the  only  part  of  the  nation  that  is  punished,  but 
we  are  actually  chastened  by  those  who  participated  wiih  us  in  the 
sins,  and  are,  to  say  the  least,  just  as  guilty  as  ourselves  ?  Are  we 
to  receive  all  and  they  none  ?     It  cannot  be,  for  God  is  just." 

"'Tarry   thou    the    Lord's    leisure,'"   replied    the   minister, 


520  CAMERON    HALL. 

solemnly,  "Our  retribution  for  our  portion  of  the  iniquity  has 
come  first,  and  for  some  mysterious  purpose  of  His  own,  God  has 
allowed  us  to  be  chastened  by  those  who  were  once  our  brethren; 
but  His  anger  only  slumbers  until,  like  Babylon  of  old,  the  North 
shall  have  filled  up  the  measure  of  her  iniquities.  He  is  using 
the  Abolition  army  to  bring  us  to  repentance,  submission,  and 
dependence  upon  Him;  but  think  you  that  their  iniquities  will 
go  unavenged  ?  To  all  their  other  sins  they  have  now  added 
the  inauguration  and  prosecution  of  a  war  which,  for  cruelty, 
oppression,  vindictiveness,  and  malignity,  has  scarcely  its  counter- 
part in  modern  times.  Think  you  tliat  the  tears  and  cries  of  the 
thousands  of  helpless  women  and  children,  whose  homes  are 
ruinous  heaps  of  ashes  and  themselves  homeless  wanderers,  will 
go  unheard  and  unheeded?  Think  you  that  the  long  line  of  de- 
vastation and  destruction,  the  charred  and  blackened  homesteads, 
that  mark  the  progress  of  the  Abolition  army,  and  the  thousands 
of  once  contented  and  happy  negroes,  now  lured  away  from  their 
homes  to  die  of  cold,  starvation,  or  loathsome  disease,  uncared 
for  and  often  unburied, — think  you  that  such  things  as  these  will 
go  unpunished  ?  I  tell  you  no,  sir !  Oppressed  and  suffering 
and  desolate  .  as  the  South  is,  I  would  rather  be  in  our  place 
than  theirs,  for  I  believe  tnat  when  their  day  of  retribution  does 
come,  it  will  be  so  awful,  so  tremendous,  that  the  most  revenge- 
ful of  those  over  whom  they  have  tyrannized  will  be  moved  to 
pity,  and  cry  'Forbear!'" 

These  were  solemn  words,  to  which  Mr.  Cameron  made  no 
reply ;  for  there  is  something  so  appalling  in  the  thought  of  a 
nation  or  an  individual  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  living  God 
for  vengeance,  that  all  human  wrath  is  at  once  stilled,  and  all 
thirst  for  revenge  is  quenched,  and  the  soul  shrinks  and  trembles 
with  awful  dread  at  the  thought  of  that  God  who  is  a  "coii- 
suming  fire  I" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Mr.  Cameron  and  Uncle  John  now  led  a  quiet,  monotonous 
life.  For  some  time  after  Grace  and  Julia  left,  their  letters  occa- 
sionally found  their  way  to  the  Hall,  nobody  knew  how ;  but  of 
late  more  rigid  discipline  and  severer  penalties  had  effectually 
cut  off  all  communication  from  the  South,  and  no  news  reached 
them  from  any  quarter.  From  the  time  that  the  Federals  entered 
Hopedale  the  citizens  had  been  constantly  threatened  with  the 


•  CAMERON    HALL.  521 

Oath  of  Allegriance,  but  as  yet  it  had  never  been  generally  and 
opeuly  administered,  nor  was  it  positively  known  that  anybody 
had  taken  it,  although  some  persons  labored  under  the  suspicion. 
At  first  there  had  been  no  restriction  upon  the  intercourse  be- 
tween the  town  and  the  surrounding  country,  and  passports  had 
been  freely  granted  to  come  and  go;  but  of  late  this  privilege 
had  been   withdrawn,  and  now  no   one  was  allowed   to   leave 
the  town,  under  any  pretext  or  in  any  emergency,  without  first 
taking  the  oath.     Mr.  Cameron  and  Uncle  John  were  therefore 
strictfy  confined  at  home,  and  instead  of  their  former  daily  ride 
to  town  they  were  now  obliged  to  content  themselves  with  such 
exercise  as  the  limits  of  the  plantation  allowed.     Nor  under  the 
circumstances  did  they  object  to  the  restriction,  for  all  that  had 
once  made  those  visits  to  town  agreeable  was  now  gone.    There 
was  nothing  to  be  heard  of  the  movements  of  our  army,  and  all 
the  reports  that  were  circulated  were  carefully  selected,  so  as  to 
depress  as  much  as  possible  the  Southern  heart.     Nor  was  there 
any  longer  anything  attractive  in  the  appearance  of  the  town. 
Its  once  clean  and  nicely -paved  streets,  now  torn  up  and  slovenly ; 
its  fences  either  entirely  gone  or  falling  down  in  ruinous  decay ; 
its  magnificent  shade  trees  felled  and  barricading  th  )  streets ;  its 
citizens  downcast  and  dejected,  and  wandering  about  as  strangers 
in  the  town  which  themselves  had  built,  and  which  had  always 
been  their  home,  and  jostled  upon  the  pavements  by  the  officer, 
or  perchance  the  negro,  in  the  uniform  that,  to  the  Southern  eye 
and  the  Southern  heart,  spoke  only  of  subjugation,— there  was 
indeed  little  enough  now  in  the  aspect  of  Hopedale  to  make  Mr. 
Cameron  and  Uncle  John  desire  to  see  it.     They  missed  Mr. 
Derby's  society,  however ;  nor  was  it  a  less  privation  to  the  min- 
ister, whose  visits  to  the  Hall  were  among  his  pleasantest  relaxa- 
tions, and  who  reckoned  Mr.  Cameron  and  Uncle  John  as  among 
his  most  valued  friends. 

The  two  gentlemen  were  smoking  in  the  library  one  morning 
after  breakfast,  when  Uncle  John,  looking  through  the  window, 
exclaimed : 

*'  Some  more  visitors,  Mr.  Cameron  !  Indeed,  considering  the 
political  sentiments  of  the  Ha,ll,  it  is  wondrously  popular  with 

the  Yankees." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Cameron,  smoking  away  quietly  without 
moving.  "One  part  of  the  establishment  is  certainly  a  favorite 
resort  of  theirs.  They  seem  to  have  a  great  partiality  both  for 
the  comfort  and  the  society  of  my  kitchen." 

"  This  time,  however,  sir,  I  think  they  are  going  to  honor  you. 
At  least  they  are  riding  up  to  the  porch." 

"If  that  be  so,"  he  answered,  rising,  *' I  will  receive  them  mj- 

44* 


522  CAMERON    HALL.  * 

self,  since  I  prefer  that  their  visit  should  be  made  at  the  door  in- 
stead of  in  the  library." 

So  saying,  he  went  to  meet  them.  "When  he  opened  the  door 
he  found  two  soldiers,  one  of  whom  asked  : 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Cameron  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"These,  then,  I  believe,  belong  to  this  house." 

Mr.  Cameron  received  two  yellow  envelopes,  one  addressed  to 
himself  and  the  other  to  Uncle  John. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  if  you  please,  where  I  am  to  take  this 
one  ?  I  was  told  that  the  gentleman  lived  in  this  neighbor- 
hood." 

Mr.  Cameron  directed  him  how  to  reach  the  house  of  his 
neighbor,  who  lived  on  an  adjoining  plantation,  waited  to  see 
them  ride  through  the  gate,  and  then  returned  to  the  library. 
He  gave  Uncle  John  his  envelope,  and  at  the  same  time  opened 
his  own. 

''  Just  as  I  expected  !"  he  said,  as  he  glanced  at  the  contents. 

It  was  the  Oath  of  Allegiance  to  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment, utterly  renouncing  all  sympathy  with,  and  refusing  all  aid 
and  support  to,  the  "so-called  Southern  Confederacy,"  promising 
full  and  unconditional  allegiance  in  all  time  to  come  to  the 
Government  of  the  United  States,  and  pledging  to  assist  and 
support  it  to  the  extent  of  personal  effort  and  influence  in  all  at- 
tempts to  crush  this  infamous  rebellion ;  and  all  this  "  without 
compulsion  and  without  mental  reservation." 

Accompanying  the  oath  was  the  order  to  report  at  headquar- 
ters, in  Hopedale,  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day  from  date. 

"  Rather  a  binding  oath,  Mr.  Cameron,"  said  Uncle  John, 
"don't  you  think  so?  'I  solemnly  affirm  that  I  take  this  oath 
of  my  own  free  will  and  choice,  without  comjmlsion  and  with- 
out mental  reservation.^     Pretty  severe  that,  hey  ?" 

"  Rather  tight,  I  confess.  Uncle  John, — so  very  tight,  that  I  do 
not  think  I  can  bear  the  pressure.  What  say  you  ?  Are  you 
ready  to  take  it  ?" 

"Quite  as  ready,  sir,  as  I  ever  have  been.  I  presume  that  we 
are  allowed  three  days'  grace  in  order  that  we  may  talk  the  mat- 
ter over  and  encourage  each  other  to  subscribe  to  it ;  but  as  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  I  would  rather  have  been  ordered  to  report 
to-day  than  day  after  to-morrow.     I  want  it  over." 

They  went  on  talking  seriously  of  what  was  now  before  them, 
and  wondering  if  the  penalty  would  allow  them  the  privilege  of 
going  to  their  own  people,  or  if  it  would  condemn  them  to  the 
rigors  of  a  Northern  prison.  All  at  once  Uncle  John  exclaimed, 
laughing : 


CAMERON    HALL.  523 

"  Here  comes  Smithson,  and  from  the  Gilpin  gait  at  which  he 
is  riding  I  suspect  that  the  yellow  envelope  is  spurring  hira  on. 
Poor  Smithson  !  his  heart  clings  to  those  acres  of  his,  and  the 
oath  will  sorely  try  hira." 

Mr.  Smithson  came  in,  the  picture  of  despair,  and  Uncle  John, 
whose  humor  could  not  be  altogether  extinguished,  even  in  cir- 
cumstances like  the  present,  said,  as  he  shook  him  by  the  hand : 

"Good  morning,  Smithson.  You  look  so  cheerful  that  you 
must  have  good  news.  Do  give  us  the  benefit  of  it,  for  Cameron 
and  I  have  a  dull  time  shut  up  here  in  the  Hall." 

"Good  news!"  he  replied,  construing  Uncle  John  literally. 
"This  is  my  good  news." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  envelope  from  his  pocket,  and  unfolding 
the  paper  that  it  contained,  gave  it  to  Uncle  John. 

"I  know  all  about  it,  Smithson,"  he  replied,  "for  we  have 
just  been  similarly  honored.  It  was  scarcely  to  be  expected  that 
such  rebels  as  you  and  I  should  have  been  invited  to  head- 
quarters," 

"  Confound  their  invitation  1"  exclaimed  Mr.  Smithson,  half 
surprised  and  extremely  annoyed  at  Uncle  John's  careless,  in- 
different view  of  the  matter.  "I  tell  you,  sir,  that  this  is  a  serious 
thing,  and  involves  serious  consequences." 

"There  is  no  doubt  of  that,  sir,"  replied  Uncle  John.  "It  is 
indeed  a  grave  question  for  consideration.  A  dilemma,  whose 
horns  are  exile  and  confiscation  on  the  one  hand,  and  treason  or 
perjury  on  the  other,  may  indeed  demand  to  be  well  pondered." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  you  do  take  a  grave  view  of  the  matter.  Treason, 
indeed  I  An  oath  extorted  from  you  by  arbitrary  power  is  not 
legally  binding  in  any  code  of  laws  upon  earth,  and  treason  is  an 
overt  act,  not  the  breath  of  the  lips.  Indeed,  sir,  if  I  were  to 
take  that  oath  forty  times,  it  would  not  bind  my  conscience  with 
the  strength  of  a  wisp  of  straw.  On  the  contrary,  I  should  feel 
conscientiously  bound  to  break  it  the  very  first  opportunity 
that  offered.  To  keep  the  oath  would  be  treason ;  to  take  it, 
never  I" 

"I  think,  Mr.  Smithson,"  said  Mr,  Cameron,  "that  you  are 
mistaken  about  the  breath  of  the  lips  not  being  treason.  The 
United  States  Government  certainly  so  regards  it,  and  has  proved 
it  by  imprisoning  and  banishing  men  for  sentiments  uttered  in 
public  speeches,  and  by  closing  newspaper  offices  for  offensive 
paragraphs.  Yes,  sir :  to  swear  allegiance  to  any  other  govern- 
ment than  your  own  is  certainly  treason." 

"  Well,  sir,  even  granting  you  this,  there  is  still  an  open  ques- 
tion :  Which  is  our  own  government  ?  We  are  in  Federal  lines, 
subject  to  the  laws  of  the  United  States  and  under  their  protec- 


524  CAMERON    HALL. 

tion.  Now  is  it  not  true  that  whether  we  will  or  not,  the  fact 
remains  the  same,  and  that  as  long  as  this  country  is  occupied  by 
United  States  troops  so  long  its  government  is  ours,  and  may 
we  not  lawfully  swear  allegiance  to  it  until  we  are  restored  to 
the  protection  and  laws  of  our  own  ?" 

''  I  think  not,  sir.  Your  first  allegiance  is  to  your  own  State 
of  Virginia,  which,  in  the  exercise  of  her  own  sovereign  power, 
has  seen  fit  to  withdraw  from  that  Federal  compact,  into  which, 
in  the  exercise  of  that  same  power,  she  entered  in  the  beginning. 
It  is  only  by  and  through  your  allegiance  to  her  that  you  can 
owe  allegiance  to  any  other  authority,  and  she  has  chosen  to  in- 
corporate herself  with  the  Confederate  States.  Therefore  it  seems 
to  me  that  your  allegiance  can  rightfully  belong  only  to  the  Con- 
federate States,  and  allegiance  to  any  other,  whether  voluntary 
or  extorted,  must  needs  be  treason." 

"  You  and  I  differ  altogether  about  this  matter,  Mr.  Cameron. 
I  think  that,  externally,  I  am  bound  to  be  subject  to  the  powers 
that  be.  With  my  inner  feelings  and  principles  they  have  nothing 
to  do,  and  over  them  they  certainly  cannot  exercise  any  control; 
but  if  by  force  of  arms  or  the  exercise  of  arbitrary  power  they 
extort  from  me  an  oath  which  my  inmost  soul  abhors,  I  am  not 
responsible  to  God  or  man  for  it,  nor  will  either  expect  me  to 
keep  it." 

"There  is  still  another  view  of  the  question  that  involves  grave 
consideration,  Mr.  Smithson,"  said  Uncle  John.  "  Solemnly  to 
call  upon  God  to  witness  the  sincerity  of  an  oath  which  you  in- 
tend to  violate  at  the  first  opportunity  is  nothing  less  than  per- 
jury. It  matters  not  whether  you  take  it  voluntarily  or  by  com- 
pulsion, the  morality  of  the  act  remains  the  same.  So  then  we 
have  now  reached  a  choice  between  treason  and  perjury.  We 
may,  in  good  faith,  swear  allegiance  to  the  enemy  of  our  country, 
and  thereby  commit  the  act  of  treason  ;  or  we  may.  swear  falsely, 
and  thus  perjure  ourselves.  For  mj  own  part,  even  between  these 
two  I  could  make  a  choice.  If  it  were  possible  that  any  moral 
force  could  be  brought  to  bear  upon  me  which  would  necessitate 
a  choice  between  the  two  crimes,  I  would  choose  the  first.  I 
would  be  ashamed  to  be  a  traitor,  but  I  would  be  afraid  to  be  a 
perjurer.  I  would  take  the  oath  and  keep  it.  I  would  forswear 
my  country,  and  then,  hiding  ray  head  in  shame  and  self-condem- 
nation, would  make  up  my  mind  to  live  and  die  a  Benedict  Arnold. " 

"  Then,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Smithson,  thoughtfully,  "  I  presume 
that  your  decision  is  made,  and  that  you  do  not  intend  to  take 
that  oath." 

^  "  Take  it !"  thundered  Uncle  John,  with  an  energy  that  startled 
his  companion.     ''  Take  it !     ]S^ever,  so  help  me  God  1" 


CAMERON    HALL.  525 

"  You  speak  very  positively,  sir.  This  contest  is  by  no  means 
ended  yet,  and  our  success,  so  far  from  being  an  accomplished 
fact,  is  to  my  mind  at  least  exceedingly  problematical.  What 
if  we  do  not  succeed  ?  The  oath  will  certainly  be  required  of  you 
then.  Will  you  still  refuse  ?  For  my  part,  I  think  that  it  is  de- 
cidedly the  part  of  wisdom  to  weigh  well  all  the  contingencies 
and  possibilities.  To  lose  my  property  now,  rather  than  take  the 
oath,  and  then  to  be  compelled  hereafter  to  take  it,  would  be 
rather  unpleasant,  and  I  think  wholly  unnecessary." 

"In  the  event  of  our  defeat,  Mr.  Smithson,  it  is  very  evident 
that  the  case  would  assume  altogether  another  aspect.  If  we 
are  overcome,  we  shall  then  have  no  government,  and  where  there 
is  no  government  there  can  be  no  treason.  If  our  earnest  strug- 
gle for  freedom  and  independence  should  prove  a  failure,  then  I, 
along  with  the  rest,  must  accept  the  result,  and,  a  disappointed 
and  saddened  man,  I  must  submit.  But,  God  helping  me,  I  will 
never  be  the  one,  either  by  word  or  act,  to  assist  in  bringing 
about  such  a  result.  While  I  have  a  government  trying  to  guard 
my  interests,  and  an  army  fighting  for  my  rights,  I  will,  like  a 
man,  bear  my  portion  of  the  burden,  and  lend  my  helping-hand 
to  sustain  them,  and  when  that  government  is  dissolved,  and  that 
army  surrenders,  it  will  be  time  enough  for  me  to  surrender  too, 
and  I  can  then,  without  shame  or  remorse,  though  not  without 
deep  sorrow,  swear  allegiance  to  that  government  under  which  I 
find  myself  compelled  to  live." 

"But  then  it  may  be  too  late  to  save  yourself  by  the  oath. 
Heaven  knows,  it  is  disagreeable  enough  at  any  time,  and  if  I  am 
to  swallow  the  dose  at  all,  I  would  rather  do  it  in  time  to  avail 
me  something." 

"  That  is  a  utilitarian  view  of  the  question,  which  does  not 
enter  at  present  into  my  argument.  I  am  talking  now  of  the 
right  of  the  act,  and  not  of  its  expediency. ^^ 

"  Which  latte»*  is  by  no  means  to  be  ignored  or  overlooked, 
sir.  Expediency  must  always  be  taken  into  the  account  in 
worldly  matters.  I  should  think  that  you  were  an  old  enough 
man  to  have  learned  that." 

"  So  I  am,  sir,  and  it  is  one  of  life's  lessons  that  I  learned 
years  ago.  I  do  not  undervalue  expediency  in  its  proper  place, 
but  I  object  either  to  confounding  it  with  principle  or  substitu- 
ting it  for  principle." 

"  But,  sir,  the  obstinate  adherence  to  an  idea,  a  chimera  (as 
this  struggle  will,  in  the  event  of  failure,  prove  itself  to  have 
been),  may  materially  interfere  with  your  future  interests,  and,  it 
may  be,  with  your  wishes  too.  I  presume  that  in  any  event  you 
would  prefer  to  spend  the  remnant  of  your  life  in  this  country. 


526  CAMERON    HALL. 

You  are  too  old  to  wander  now.  May  it  not  be  the  dictate  of 
wisdom  so  to  modify  any  intemperance  of  speech,  or  the  display 
of  any  rabid  or  ultra  feeling,  that  in  case  you  should  hereafter 
want  to  retract  you  would  be  allowed  to  do  so  ?  Has  it  never 
been  the  case  in  political  convulsions,  that  men  have  sometimes 
wanted  to  renew  their  allegiance  to  their  former  government,  and 
have  been  denied  ?  That  they  have  asked  the  oath,  and  received 
banishment  instead  ?" 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Smithson,"  replied  Uncle  John,  laughing,  "yon 
are  a  man  of  wondrous  prudence  and  forethought,  and  provide 
not  only  for  future  possibilities,  but,  as  it  seems  to  my  sanguine 
hopes,  for  impossibilities  too.  Anybody  would  imagine,  from 
your  train  of  argument,  that  the  great  issue  was  decided,  the  last 
battle  fought,  and  the  South  utterly  vanquished.  For  my  part,  I 
anticipate  no  such  thing;  but  I  will,  for  the  sake  of  argument, 
admit  its  possibility,  and  will  look  at  the  prospect  through  your 
fears  rather  than  through  my  hopes.  But  even  in  this  event,  I 
should  have  no  apprehensions  whatever  that  the  privilege  of 
taking  the  oath  would  be  denied  me.  I  do  not  acknowledge  my- 
self to  be  either  a  ral5fd  or  an  ultra  man.  There  is  nothing  which 
I  can,  under  any  circumstances,  retract.  My  opinions  have  not 
been  formed  in  the  heat  and  excitement  of  passion,  but  they  are 
at  this  day  the  very  same  that  they  were  before  the  first  gun  had 
been  fired,  or  the  first  sword  unsheathed,  in  this  unholy  war. 
They  are  calm  and  deliberate  convictions,  founded  upon  unalter- 
able principles  which  are  utterly  independent  of  the  success  or 
failure  of  this  revolution.  I  always  believed  in  the  right  of  seces- 
sion, and,  at  the  beginning  of  this  war,  I  was  convinced  of  its 
expediency  too ;  but  I  have  never  tried  to  force  my  belief  upon 
others.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  throughout  this  whole  con- 
test a  man  of  few  words,  and  so  far  as  I  am  a  judge  of  my  own 
conduct,  there  has  been  nothing  which  can  make  me  a  proper 
subject  for  banishment  or  confiscation  now,  or,  in  the  event  of  our 
subjugation,  an  object  of  suspicion  to  the  Federal  Government. 
But  even  if  the  reverse  were  the  case,  I  trust  that  I  would  not 
allow  apprehensions  of  the  possible  future  to  deter  me  from  the 
performance  of  present  duty.  But  let  me  tell  you  one  thin^,  Mr. 
Smithson;  something  that  time-serving  men  are  apt  to  overlook. 
There  is  much  truth  in  the  old  adage :  '  Honesty  is  the  best 
policy,''  although  I  despise  the  maxim  because  it  is  degrading  to 
the  noble  principle  to  recommend  it  on  such  low  and  contempt- 
ible grounds.  Nevertheless,  it  is  true ;  in  this  as  well  as  in  all 
other  cases,  honesty  will  be  found  to  be  not  only  right,  but  the 
best  policy  too.  Let  two  Southern  men  go  together  to-day  to 
headquarters,  the  one  accepting  the  oath,  and  the  other  refusing 


CAMERON    HALL.  527 

it,  with  exile  and  confiscation  staring  him  in  the  face.  Now,  I 
believe  that  if  the  war  should  end  next  week  in  the  subjugation 
of  the  South,  and  these  two  men  should  apply  to  the  United 
States  Government  for  the  same  office,  if  the  gift  of  that  office 
were  in  the  hands  of  an  intelligent  Northern  man,  one  who  un- 
derstood human  nature,  and  was  acquainted  with  the  past  history 
of  both  candidates,  he  would  unhesitatingly  give  it  to  him  who 
had  refused  the  oath.  The  reason  is  obvious.  Men  yield  an  in- 
voluntary homage  to  him  who  plants  himself  firmly  and  squarely 
upon  his  principles,  and  with  manly  courage  and  fortitude  con- 
sents to  meet  the  consequences  of  them.  Such  a  man  is  not  only 
respected,  but  he  is  trusted  too.  Do  you  know,  sir,  who,  in  the 
event  of  subjugation,  would  make  the  best  citizens  of  the  United 
States,  and  in  what  class  of  people  that  government  would  least 
dread  any  remaining  leaven  of  the  revolutionary  element  ?  It 
would  be  in  the  Lees  and  the  Johnsons,  and  the  brave  men  who 
followed  them,  in  the  Wilderness,  and  before  Richmond,  at 
Atlanta,  and  at  Kennesau  Mountain ;  and  at  home,  those  who 
have  been  content  to  suffer  privation  and  discomfort,  loss  of  prop- 
erty and  personal  risk,  rather  than  yield  one  iota  of  principle. 
It  is  such  men  as  these  that  are  battling  now  for  freedom  ;  law- 
abiding,  order-loving  men,  who  are  not  fighting  from  the  mere 
outburst  of  a  discontented,  factious,  revolutionary  spirit,  but  are 
freemen,  honestly  and  earnestly  fighting  for  their  rights,  fighting 
for  pr^incij^le,  and  who,  if  overcome,  will  submit  on  principle. 
Of  such  men  as  these  the  United  States  Government  would  not 
be  afraid.  No  garrisoned  towns  and  standing  array  would  be 
necessary  to  keep  down  and  quell  such  spirits  as  these ;  but  the 
Federal  Government  would  rightfully  distrust  those  who  had 
been  traitors  to  their  own  cause,  and  who,  either  from  interest  or 
fear,  or  some  other  base  and  cowardly  motive,  had  uttered  with 
their  lips  words  to  which  every  feeling  of  their  nature  gave  the 

lie." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  Mr.  Smithson  replied, 
shaking  his  head  sadly  and  thoughtfully : 

"  Ah,  sir  1  fortunately  for  you,  your  case  differs  from  mine. 
You  are  not  hampered  by  family  ties,  and  are  at  liberty  to  follow 
the  dictates  of  feeling  and  conscience.  You  can  go  into  exile 
unburdened  by  a  thousand  torturing  anxieties  about  those  whom 
you  have  left  behind  at  the  mercy  of  their  enemies.  But  look  at 
me,  sir.  I  have  a  wife  and  six  children.  To  take  them  with  me 
is  impossible,  for  I  have  not  the  means ;  to  go  and  leave  them,  for 
an  indefinite  time,  with  no  one  to  protect  them  and  provide  for 
them,  is  equally  impossible  to  a  man  calling  himself  husband  and 
father." 


528  '  CAMERON    HALL. 

"  To  that,  Mr.  Smithson,  I  can  only  answer  as  I  did  just  now, 
that  we  are  discussing  the  moral  right  of  the  act,  and  not  its  ex- 
pediency or  agreeableness.  It  is  so  hard  for  men  to  separate 
these  two  things,  and  to  look  at  them  independently  of  each 
other.  And  yet,  if  amid  the  tortuous  and  perplexing  paths  of 
life  we  would  find  the  right  one,  we  must  needs  do  it;  we  must 
put  on,  as  it  were,  a  blind  ffridle,  that  shuts  out  everything  ex- 
cept what  is  right  before  us,  and  look  at  the  morality  of  the  act 
as  it  stands  alone,  in  its  stern,  naked  ruggedness;  for  when  once 
we  begin  to  look  at  results,  then  self-love,  ease,  convenience,  and 
profit  all  loom  up  in  such  vast  and  undue  .proportions,  that  they 
effectually  throw  into  shadow  the  question  that  we  originally  pro- 
posed to  consider.  Now,  the  difference  in  our  situations  may  and 
does  affect  the  amount  of  sacrifice  involved  in  doing  right;  but 
the  right  itself  it  cannot  alter.  I  admit  that  it  will  cost  me  far 
less  self-denial  and  sacrifice  of  feeling  to  be  driven  into  exile  than 
it  will  cost  you,  inasmuch  as  I  have  no  wife  and  children  to  leave 
behind;  but,  at  the  same  time,  I  also  believe  that  ail  the  wives 
and  children  upon  earth  cannot  make  the  act  of  taking  that  oath 
at  this  time  anything  less  than  treason  or  perjury.  Such  it  must 
of  necessity  be;  and  the  only  question  remaining  is,  whether  you 
choose  to  stay  and  take  care  of  your  family,  a  traitor,  or  a  per- 
jured man,  or  prefer  to  leave  them  to  suffer  inconvenience,  priva- 
tion, or — if  you  choose  to  take  an  improbable  extreme — even 
want  itself,  with  the  name  of  the  husband  and  father  unstained  by 
dishonor  and  guilt." 

"  You  use  strong  language,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Smithson,  turning 
restlessly  in  his  chair,  "and  present  a  bitter  alternative." 

"  Such  it  may  be,  Mr.  Smithson,  such,  indeed,  I  admit  that  it 
is ;  but  I  only  call  things  by  their  right  names,  and  offer  the 
alternative  as  it  stands.  I  am  not  responsible  for  it ;  if  I  were,  I 
would  speedily  alter  it,  for  I  assure  you  that,  personally,  the 
thought  of  banishment  from  home  at  my  age  is  as  unwelcome  to 
me  as  to  any  other  man  in  the  world.  I  am  old  now,  and  the 
arm-chair,  the  corner  of  the  fire-side,  and  all  the  little  nameless 
comforts  of  home,  that  I  could  once  have  done  without,  have  be- 
come necessities,  and  I  would  willingly  pay  any  price  for  them, 
except  the  sacrifice  of  principle.  Believe  me,  sir,  nothing  but 
stern,  unalterable  necessity  would  make  me  consent  to  go  into 
exile  now." 

"But  I  am  not  yet  convinced  that  there  is  a  stern,  unalterable 
necessity  in  the  case.  I  do  not  agree  with  you  that,  in  the  de- 
cision of  any  matter,  consequences  may  be  thus  entirely  ignored, 
nor  do  I  think  it  right  to  look  only  to  myself  and  my  own  feel- 
ings, and  leave  out  of  view  the  claims  of  wife  and  children.     Be- 


CAMERON     HALL.  529 

sides,"  he  added,  with  a  slight  degree  of  bitterness  and  sarcasm 
in  his  tone,  "  I  have  no  desire  to  make  myself  a  martyr.  There 
is  in  my  nature  none  of  the  stuff  that  martyrs  are  made  of" 

"Xow,  Smithson,"  said  Uncle  John,  laughing  pleasantly, 
"who  is  talking  of  martyrdom,  or  who  would  advocate  it?  Cer- 
tainly not  I,  for  my  ambition  never  led  me  to  aspire  either  to  its 
honors  or  its  sufferings;  but  by  calling  such  banishment  as  ours 
will  probably  be,  martyrdom,  you  call  it  by  altogether  too  high- 
sounding  a  title.  If  it  be  martyrdom  at  all,  it  is  of  so  low  a 
type  that  it  partakes  only  of  its  inconveniences  and  disagreeable 
accompaniments,  without  any  of  that  fame  and  admiration  which 
dignify  the  suffering  and  sweeten  the  pain." 

Mr.  Smithson  was  evidently  ill  at  ease.  Dissatisfied  with  his 
own  position,  he  was  yet  unwilling  to  accept  Uncle  John's.  His 
reason  and  judgment  were  almost  convinced;  but  the  thought  of 
home,  family,  and  interest  proved  powerful  weights  in  the  op- 
posite scale. 

"Mr.  Smithson,"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  "there  is  still  another 
argument  on  our  side  of  the  question,  which  has  not  been  urged. 
It  does  not  occupy  the  high  moral  ground  of  the  others,  and  yet 
it  is  one  which  must  appeal  to  you  as  a  man,  and  especially  as  a 
father  with  a  son  in  the  Confederate  army.  Your  son  and  mine 
have  not  only  left  the  comfort  and  ease  of  home,  and  gone  into 
voluntary  exile,  which  is  the  thing  that  now  seems  so  intolerable 
to  us,  but,  more  than  this,  they  are  daily  enduring  privations 
which  it  is  not  probable  that  we  will  be  called  upon  to  bear,  and 
they  are  hourly  risking  their  lives,— and  for  what?  For  the 
maintenance  of  those  very  principles  which  we  are  willing  to 
renounce  and  forswear,  the  very  moment  that  a  manly  adherence 
to  them  threatens  the  loss  of  property  or  brings  upon  us  per- 
sonal inconvenience.  We  encourage  our  sons  to  go,  nay,  we 
push  them  out  into  the  army;  we  bid  them  suffer,  yes,  and  die, 
for  a  cause  which  we  ourselves  are  not  willing  to  uphold  by  the 
sacrifice  of  a  little  property  or  a  little  personal  comfort.  I  do 
not  ask,  Mr.  Smithson,  where  is  the  consistency ;  but  I  go  further, 
I  ask  where  is  the  manhood,  the  paternal  feeling  of  such  conduct 
as  this  ?  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  were  I  a  soldier  in  that  army,  sacri- 
ficing health,  and  perhaps  even  life  itself,  no  defeat  in  battle,  no 
privations  in  camp,  no  suffering  that  I  might  endure,  would  so 
effectually  paralyze  my  arm,  and  weaken  my  energies,  and  dis- 
courage my  heart,  as  to  know  that  the  men  for  whom  I  was 
fighting  so  little  valued  the  precious  boon  which  I  was  purchas- 
ing at  so  tremendous  a  price,  that,  like  Esau,  they  were  willing 
to  barter  the  costly  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  A  nation 
of  such  men  would  not  be  worth  fighting  for,  for  there  would  not 

45 


530  "CAMERON     HALL. 

be  soul  enough  in  them  to  make  freemen  of!  They  would  not 
know  how  to  value  the  liberty  that  others  had  purchased  for 
them,  nor  could  they  keep  the  sacred  treasure  when  it  was  in- 
trusted to  them." 

Mr.  Smithson's  face  wore  a  deeper  shade  than  ever.  Mr.  Cam- 
eron's last  argument  had  been  a  home-thrust  to  the  father's  heart; 
but  even  then  he  was  not  willing  to  yield.  The  sacrifice  was 
too  costly ;  his  property,  now  large  and  valuable,  had  been  the 
gradual  accumulation  of  a  lifetime.  He  had  known  what  it  was 
to  be  straitened;  and  now,  when  he  was  growing  old,  and  needed 
the  luxuries  and  comforts  wliich  his  life  of  toil  and  self-denial 
had  accumulated,  it  seemed  hard  indeed  to  turn  his  back  upon 
them  all  and  go  out  into  the  world  a  homeless  exile. 

Uncle  John  plainly  saw  the  struggle  that  was  going  on  in  his 
mind,  and  while  he  could  not  help  feeling  contempt  for  the  man 
who  had  not  the  moral  courage  and  the  manliness  to  do  right, 
still  there  mingled  with  it  a  compassion  for  his  evident  discom- 
fort and  restlessness.  When  he  was  going  away,  Uncle  John 
said,  kindly : 

"We  differ,  Smithson,  in  our  views  of  this  matter;  but  in  cases 
like  this  no  man  can  decide  what  another  must  do.  Each  one 
must  do  what  his  own  conscience  approves." 

'•  That  is  just  my  opinion,"  he  replied,  his  face  brightening. 
"  Only  the  individual  himself  can  know  all  the  little  circumstances 
which  combine  to  shape  his  conduct,  and  to  make  that  right  for 
him  which  would  be  extremely  wrong  for  another." 

With  this  convenient  and  soothing  sophistry,  Mr.  Smithson 
took  his  departure.  Uncle  John  watched  him  as  he  rode  down 
the  lawn,  and  said,  in  a  tone  half  comic  and  half  sad: 

"  Poor  Smithson !  he  came  to  the  wrong  place  for  comfort. 
He  is  sorely  tried.     He  dies  hard,  very  hard,  poor  fellow !" 

"I  don't  think  that  he  is  dying  at  all,  Uncle  John,  or  that  he 
intends  to  do  so.  It  is  very  evident  that  he  proposes  to  live  on, 
and  to  live  here,  too,  and  take  care  of  his  property." 

"Yes,  yes,"  answered  Uncle  John,  musingly,  "it  is  a  hard 
thing  to  part  with  property.  There  is  no  grasp  like  that  with 
which  money  seizes  the  soul ;  there  is  no  struggle  so  hard  as 
that  with  which  its  hold  must  be  loosened!  Poor  Smithson! 
I  pity  him." 

Punctually  at  the  appointed  hour  on  the  morning  of  the  third 
day,  Mr.  Cameron  and  Uncle  John  presented  themselves  at  head- 
quarters, where  they  met  some  six  or  eight  other  gentlemen, 
among  them  Mr.  Derby  and  Mr.  Smithson.  To  an  accurate  ob- 
server of  human  nature,  the  faces  of  the  group  there  assembled 
would  have  formed  an  interesting  study.     The  general,  in  the 


CAMERON     HALL.  531 

plenitude  of  his  power,  looked  with  serene  cojuplacency  upon 
those  whose  destiny  was  at  the  mercy  of  his  arbitrary  will;  some 
of  them,  with  troubled  and  anxious  faces,  glanced  first  at  one  and 
then  at  another  of  their  companions,  as  if  hoping  to  catch  some 
expression  which  would  encourage  them  to  do  what  inclination 
and  interest  prompted,  but  which  their  sense  of  right  condemned ; 
and  others  were  serious  and  thoughtful,  but  calm  and  quiet,  in  the 
possession  of  that  inward  peace  which  every  one  must  have  in 
obeying  the  voice  of  conscience,  no  matter  how  much  sacrifice 
that  obedience  involves. 

The  general  opened  the  conversation  by  saying : 

''  I  suppose,  gentlemen,  that  you  have  come  prepared  to  take 
the  oath." 

He  addressed  himself  by  word  to  them  all ;  but  he  looked 
specially  at  Mr.  Derby,  who  replied  : 

"  I  can  only  answer  for  myself,  sir,  that  my  conscience  will  not 
permit  me  to  do  it." 

''  If  you  would  allow  me  the  privilege  of  advising  you,  sir," 
replied  the  general,  "  I  would  counsel  you  not  to  be  too  hasty  in 
your  decision.  It  seems  to  me  that  your  profession  renders  this 
matter  a  graver  question  with  you  than  with  these  other  gentle- 
men. With  them  it  may  be  simply  a  choice  between  loyalty  and 
the  penalty  of  disloyalty,  but  with  you  it  assumes  a  more  serious 
aspect,  and  becomes  a  choice  between  political  opinions  and  the 
sacred  duties  which,  as  a  Christian  minister,  you  are.  bound  to 
perform." 

"  That  is  a  very  unjust  statement  of  the  case,  sir,"  replied  Mr. 
Derby,  with  dignity.  "  The  question  is  not  at  all  between  politi- 
cal opinion  and  official  duty;  it  is  simply  whether  I  will  allow 
myself  to  be  forced  by  arbitrary  power  to  do  what  I  know  to  be 
a  wrong  act,  in  order  that  thereby  I  may  be  allowed  to  perform 
ministerial  duty." 

At  this  moment  a  note  was  placed  in  Mr.  Derby's  hand.  He 
glanced  at  the  contents,  and  his  face  wore  an  expression  of  pain 
as  he  read  the  hasty  summons  to  attend  the  death-bed  of  a  valued 
and  beloved  parishioner.  He  gave  the  note  to  the  general,  asking 
to  be  paroled  and  allowed  to  perform  the  sad  duty. 

"Here  is  a  case  in  point,"  replied  the  general,  returning  the 
note.  "This  summons  you  to  the  fulfillment  of  a  duty  to  which 
you  are  solemnly  pledged  by  your  ordination  vows.  Now  choose 
between  them ;  you  are  free  to  act.  Take  the  oath,  and  go  your 
way  in  obedience  to  the  call  of  ministerial  duty,  or  else  refuse, 
and  prefer  to  be  a  traitor  to  your  God  rather  than  one  to  your 
so-called  Southern  Confederacy  !" 

Mr.  Derby  looked  pained  and  distressed,  not  at  the  decision 


532  CAMERON     HALL. 

now  offered  him,,  whose  specious  phraseology  could  not  for  an  in- 
stant obscure  the  true  alternative,  but  he  was  grieved  at  the  im- 
mediate consequences  of  that  decision.  He  thought  of  that  death- 
bed, which  his  presence  as  a  friend,  as  well  as  a  Christian  minis- 
ter, would  soothe  and  comfort,  and  his  face  reflected  the  sadness 
of  his  heart.  For  an  instant  his  thoughts  were  busy  elsewhere, 
and  he  did  not  reply ;  and  the  general,  construing  his  silence  into 
a  wavering  purpose,  said  : 

"You  ought  to  think  more  upon  this  subject.  A  reconsider- 
ation of  it  in  all  its  bearings  might  perhaps  alter  your  decision. 
I  am  disposed  to  be  lenient,  and  would  be  willing  to  give  you 
a  few  days  more  to  decide;  and,  if  you  consent  to  that,  I  will 
parole  you  now  to  obey  this  summons." 

"I  need  no  more  time  to  reflect,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Derby.  "I 
have  thought  long  and  deeply  upon  this  subject,  even  before  I 
had  a  personal  interest  in  it.  I  have  studied  it  by  the  light  of 
reason,  of  conscience,  and  of  God's  own  Word  ;  and  even  this  last 
painful  circumstance,  coming  upon  me  so  unexpectedly,  does  not 
in  the  least  affect  my  decision.  I  am  not  responsible  for  this  or 
any  other  attending  circumstance.  My  business  alone  is  to  decide 
what  is  right,  what  is  duty,  and  that  I  have  done  long  ago,  inde- 
pendent of  circumstances  and  of  consequences.  I  repeat  to  you 
what  I  said  at  first,  that  my  conscience  will  not  permit  me  to  take 
that  oath." 

"Very  well,  sir.  You  have,  then,  made  your  selection  between 
political  opinion  and  minisierial  duty?" 

"I  have  made  ray  selection,  sir,  between  the  commands  of  God 
and  the  dictates  of  man.  He  has  said,  '  Thou  shalt  not  forswear 
thyself;'  and,  as  a  Christian  man,  fearing  His  name  and  rever- 
encing His  authority,  I  dare  not  do  it." 

"Your  decision,  then,  I  presume,  is  final?" 

"Yes,  sir,  it  is  irrevocable." 

Turning  to  the  others,  the  general  now  asked : 

"And  what  have  you  decided  to  do,  gentlemen  ?" 

"I,  for  one,"  replied  Mr.  Cameron,  "Tiave  decided  not  to  take 
that  oath." 

'•'Such,  also,  is  my  decision,"  said  Uncle  John. 

One  or  two  more  gave  the  same  answer,  but  Mr.  Smithson  and 
the  others  asked  for  a  few  days  longer  to  decide. 

The  faltering  purpose  betrayed  iu  the  beginning  by  the  troubled 
face  and  anxious  eye  was  now  plainly  avowed  by  the  petition 
for  a  longer  time  to  reflect;  and  the  wily  general,  seizing  his  op- 
portunity, brought  up  an  array  of  specious  arguments,  and  gave 
them  double  power  by  skillful  and  subtle  appeals,  to  which  he 
well  knew  that  their  interests  and  inclinations  would  promptly 
respond. 


CAMERON    HALL.  533 

The  interview  was  closed  by  paroling  these  for  a  week,  and 
Mr.  Derby,  Mr.  Cameron,  and  the  others  until  further  orders. 

"Our  doom  is  sealed!"  said  Mr.  Derby  to  Mr.  Cameron  and 
Uncle  John,  as  they  walked  together  down  the  street.  "In  a 
few  days,  or,  it  may  be,  in  a  few  hours,  we  will  be  officially  noti- 
fied of  banishment,  either  North  or  South." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Cameron;  "and  what  is  to  become  of 
your  wife  and  children,  Mr.  Derby  ?" 

"Alas!  sir,"  replied  the  minister,  sadly,  "God  only  knows! 
That  was  my  struggle,  Mr.  Cameron,  and  I  assure  you  that  it  was 
a  hard  one.  I  did  not  hesitate  or  falter,  for  my  duty  was  too 
plain  for  that;  but  it  was  the  severest  trial  of  Christian  faith  that 
I  ever  had  in  my  life,  to  consent  to  leave  them  under  these  cir- 
cumstances. I  tell  you,  sir,  that  it  takes  all  of  Christian  man- 
hood to  meet  an  emergency  like  this  with  an  unfaltering  purpose. 
For  myself  alone  I  do  not  care ;  I  could  bear  anything,  but  wife 
and  little  children " 

His  voice  faltered  and  he  said  no  more,  and  at  the  next  corner 
he  left  them  without  a  word,  and  hurried  down  the  street. 

"Poor  Mr.  Derby !"  said  Mr.  Cameron,  following  him  with  his 
eyes.     "Ah,  sir!  his  is  a  trial  to  which  ours  is  as  nothing." 

"That  is  true,"  replied  Uncle  John;  "and  yet,  in  the  differ- 
ence between  him  and  Mr.  Smithson,  how  clearly  defined  is  the 
line  which  separates  the  man  of  principle  from  him  who  has  none  I 
Their  circumstances  are  the  same, — no,  not  the  same,  either;  for 
although  both  would  leave  wives  and  children  behind,  yet  Mr. 
Smithson  could  provide  for  his  family,  in  his  absence,  by  many 
means  which  are  not  accessible  to  Mr.  Derby ;  and  yet  the  latter 
stands  up  unflinchingly  to  what  is  right,  while  the  other  pleads 
wife  and  children  as  the  reason  why  he  must  do  wrong !  Suppose, 
Mr.  Cameron,"  he  added,  with  a  twinkle  of  his  eye,  "that  we  tell 
Mr.  Derby  not  to  be  so  anxious  about  his  family.  Neighbor 
Smithson  will  doubtless  take  care  of  them." 

"That  is  not  probable,"  answered  Mr.  Cameron,  smiling.  "A 
man  who  cannot  take  care  of  his  own  principles  is  not  the  one  to 
offer  to  take  care  of  another  man's  family.  My  observation  is 
that  liberality  generally  goes  hand  in  hand  with  strength  of  prin- 
ciple and  honesty  of  purpose." 

Two  days  passed  quietly  away,  and  nothing  more  was  heard 
from  headquarters;  but  on  the  morning  of  the  third  an  order 
was  brought  to  the-  Hall,  requiring  Mr.  Cameron  and  Uncle  John 
to  report  the  next  day  at  ten  o'clock,  in  readiness  to  be  escorted 
to  the  Confederate  lines. 

"  Thank  God  for  that  privilege  !"  exclaimed  Uncle  John,  drawing 
a  long  breath.  "  The  thoughts  of  a  Northern  prison  have  weighed 


534  CAMERON    HALL. 

heavily  npon  me  for  these  last  two  days.  To-morrow  at  ten 
o'clock;  that  is  indeed  short  notice  to  a  man  who  has  any  prep- 
arations to  make.  Thanks  to  Yankee  consideration  and  fore- 
thought, however,  I  have  nothing  of  that  sort  to  do.  They  have 
kindly  relieved  me  of  the  trouble  of  making  arrangements  to 
leave  home,  and  it  will  not  require  either  much  time  or  much  re- 
flection to  put  away  in  my  valise  all  the  worldly  effects  of  the  old 
rebel,  Uncle  John.  But  you,  Mr.  Cameron;  you  will  have  some- 
thing to  do  before  you  go,  and  little  enough  time  they  have 
allowed  you  for  it." 

"  No,  Uncle  John,"  he  answered,  sadly.  "  I  have  nothing  to 
do ;  nothing  but  to  turn  my  back  upon  my  home  and  all  my 
earthly  possessions,  and  go  out,  in  my  old  age,  a  homeless  wan- 
derer. And  for  what  ?"  he  added,  bitterly.  "  Not  for  any  overt 
act,  not  even  for  an  outspoken  word;  but  for  feelings  and  princi- 
ples that  are  in  my  heart,  and  that  belong  as  naturally  to  my 
moral  nature  as  the  bones  and  muscles  do  to  my  body.  It  seems 
to  me  that  it  would  be  just  as  reasonable  to  punish  me  for  loving 
my  children  as  for  loving  my  country." 

In  the  afternoon  Mr.  Cameron  took  a  solitary  ride  over  his 
plantation.  Many  of  his  servants  had  already  left  him,  and 
many  others  were  living  in  that  complete  idleness  which  is  with 
them  synonymous  with  freedom.  Only  a  few  remained  faithful 
to  their  master,  and  obedient  to  his  commands ;  and  already  his 
well-ordered  farm  began  to  show  signs  of  decay  and  neglect. 
Many  of  his  fences  had  furnished  fuel  for  camp  fires,  and  the 
fields  which  they  had  once  inclosed  were  now  a  public  highway. 
The  larger  proportion  of  his  valuable  stock  had  been  stolen,  and 
signs  of  ruin  and  desolation  were  all  around.  He  sighed  deeply 
as  he  looked  upon  the  wreck,  and  compared  it  with  what  it  had 
been  a  few  months  before,  with  what  it  would  be  when  he  should 
see  it  again,  if  indeed  that  would  ever  be. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  day  he  was  silent  and  thoughtful, 
and  soon  after  tea  went  to  his  own  room,  on  the  pretext  of  making 
arrangements  for  his  journey,  but  in  reality  to  be  alone.  It  was 
with  Mr.  Cameron  a  severer  struggle  to  leave  his  home  than  he 
cared  for  even  Uncle  John  to  know.  He  loved  the  Hall  not 
only  as  the  home  of  his  manhood  and  married  life,  but  there  were 
ties  and  associations  connected  with  it  which  ran  far  back  to  his 
childhood  and  infancy,  and  made  it  doubly  dear  to  him.  There 
were  memories  in  his  heart  of  scenes  and  events  there  in  which 
he  had  participated,  and  of  all  those  who  had  mingled  in  them 
he  alone  now  survived.  The  others  had  long  slept  in  the  grave, 
and  those  memories,  now  become  sacred,  were  awakened  nowhere 
else,  and  were  completely  identified  with  the  old  Hall.     Like  the 


CAMERON    HALL. 


535 


heart  of  the  dying  Patriarch,  which  clung  to  the  resting-place  of 
his  Dead,  and  made  such  touching  mention  of  the  old  cave: 
"  There  they  buried  Abraham  and  Sarah  his  wife ;  there  they 
buried  Isaac  and  Rebekah  his  wife;  and  there  I  buried  Leah;" 
so  now  the  heart  of  the  old  man,  as  he  stood  upon  the  threshold 
of  that  exile  which  might  be  for  years,  or  perhaps  forever,  turned 
fondly  to  the  graves  of  his  household,  and  he  longed  to  close  his 
eyes  amid  scenes  so  full  of  the  memories  of  father,  mother,  wife, 
and  Eva,  and  to  find  his  last  resting-place  beside  them. 

Tlie  next  morning  the  servants  crowded  round  him  to  say  fare- 
well He  shook  hands  with  all  the  rest  in  silence ;  but  when  he 
came  to  Mammy  Nancy,  his  children's  nurse,  ^m's  nurse,  he 
could  not  go  without  a  word  to  her.  He  wrung  her  hand,  and 
said,  in  a  choking  voice : 

''Don't  leave  the  old  Hall,  Nancy;  stay  by  it  until  you  die! 
Would  to  God  that  I  could  too !" 

He  flung  himself  upon  his  horse,  buried  the  spur  in  his  side, 
and  flew  down  the  lawn,  and  along  the  road,  leaving  Uncle  John 
far  behind.  When  he  overtook  him,  the  broken-hearted  exile 
was  leaning  against  the  old  walnut-tree  in  the  grove,  crying  like 
a  child. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

If  kindness  and  affection  could  have  made  Julia  happy,  she 
would  have  been  entirely  so  in  Charles  Beaufort's  home,  where  at 
first  for  his  sake,  and  afterward  for  her  own,  she  was  beloved  and 
treated  as  a  daughter  and  sister.  In  Charles's  mother  she 
realized  her  ideal,  and  the  knowledge  was  both  pleasant  and 
painful :  pleasant,  inasmuch  as  she  had  at  last  found  that  ma- 
ternal love  for  which  she  had  so  often  and  so  vainly  longed ;  and 
painful,  inasmuch  as  it  enabled  her  more  fully  to  appreciate  her 
deprivation  during  all  the  period  of  childhood  and  youth.  She 
heard  re^-ularly  from  Charles  and  Walter,  and  had  received  two 
or  three  fetters  from  her  father  soon  after  she  left  home ;  but  for  a 
lono-  time  she  had  not  received  a  line  from  him,  and  exaggerated 
rumors  of  cruelties  and  outrages  perpetrated  at  Hopedale,  and  in 
its  vicinity,  kept  her  always  anxious  and  distressed. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon  in  February,  one  of  those  soft, 
bright  days,  which  in  the  sunny  South  often  come  at  this  season, 
as  if  the  spring,  impatient  of  delay,  was  constrained  to  give  the 


536  CAMERON    HALL. 

earth  a  glimpse  and  foretaste  of  its  soft  air  and  balmy  breath.  The 
gay  crocus,  wooed  by  the  sunshine,  had  already  burst  its  wintery 
fetters,  and  might  be  seen,  here  and  there,  leaning  its  bright  cheek 
against  the  dull,  dark  earth  ;  and  the  buds  of  the  yellow  daffodil 
and  the  hyacinth  were  drinking  in  the  sunlight  that  was  to  paint 
their  petals  and  perfume  their  blossoms. 

Julia  had  wandered  through  the  garden,  looking  at  the  opening 
flowers,  and  thinking  of  home.  The  sight  of  flowers  always  re- 
called Eva:  once,  with  her  bright,  happy  face,  twining  garlands 
by  Willie's  couch ;  and  afterward,  with  her  pale,  wan  cheek,  dec- 
orating herself  with  his  favorite  roses,  that  they  as  well  as  her- 
self might  welcome  him  home.  But  there  was  something  specially 
to  remind  Julia  of  her  sister  now.  This  was  the  month  in  which 
she  had  been  married,  and  there  was  something  in  the  brightness 
and  softness  of  the  day  that  recalled  her  wedding  day,  and  her 
image  rose  before  Julia  with  startling  vividness,  with  that  one 
bright  ray  of  golden  sunshine  streaming  full  upon  her  brow,  as 
she  stood  before  the  altar  in  her  solemn  happiness.  Then  Julia's 
thoughts  naturally  pasged  from  Eva  to  her  father,  and  she  won- 
dered if  he  had  grown  much  older  in  heart  and  in  appearance 
since  she  left  him.  She  was  thinking  sadly  of  his  loneliness  and 
desolation,  when  all  at  once  she  found  herself  encircled  in  some- 
body's arms,  and  held  in  a  tight  embrace,  and  when  she  looked 
up  and  saw  her  father's  face,  unlike  her  quiet  self,  she  screamed 
out  in  her  glad  surprise.  Then  another  pair  of  arms  caught  her, 
and  not  less  amazed  was  she  to  see  Uncle  John. 

There  was  great  joy  that  night  in  that  family-circle ;  and  Uncle 
John's  almost  boyish  delight  at  finding  himself  where  he  had  so 
often  longed  to  be,  in  the  family-circle  of  William  Beaufort,  the 
friend  of  his  youth,  made  him  forget  for  the  time  being  the  cause 
that  had  sent  him  there.  Nor  was  he  less  glad  to  see  Grace 
once  more,  for  in  this  separation  from  her,  not  less  than  in  that 
other  one  three  years  before,  he  had  found  how  necessary  she 
was  to  his  happiness.  Ever  since  the  day  that  she  had  heard  the 
avowal  of  his  feelings  with  a  horror  which  he  could,not  then  under- 
stand, but  which  after  circumstances  had  explained,  he  had  tried 
to  content  himself  with  her  friendship,  and  during  those  three 
years  he  believed  that  he  kad  succeeded  in  doing  so.  The  last 
few  months,  however,  had  taught  him  his  mistake,  and  the  antici- 
pated pleasure  of  being  once  more  with  her  had  gone  very  far 
toward  counterbalancing  the  pain  of  banishment. 

For  awhile  Mr.  Cameron's  face  wore  its  old  familiar  smile,  for 
he,  too,  in  the  comfort  of  being  with  his  children  once  more, 
found  a  compensation  for  the  pain  of  leaving  home;  but  after- 
ward, when  he  felt  more  like  one  of  the  home-circle,  and  began 


CAMERON    HALL.  537 

to  exercise  the  freedom  and  unrestraint  which  belonged  to  him  as 
such,  the  change  in  her  father  became  painfully  evident  to  Julia. 
Often  in  the  large  assembled  circle,  when  the  conversation  was 
general,  and  when  he  thought  that  his  silence  would  pass  un- 
observed, he  would  relapse  into  a  sad,  dreamy  abstraction,  which 
plainly  revealed  the  farrows  upon  his  brow,  and  the  deep  lines  of 
care  and  trouble  about  his  mouth.  Julia's  heart  ached  as  she 
looked  at  her  father  so  sadly  altered.  Sometimes  she  wondered 
if  he  could  indeed  be  the  same  person,  whose  bright,  cheerful 
spirit  used  to  lighten  her  home,  but  over  which  the  war  had  first 
cast  a  shadow,  afterward  so  deepened  by  a  son's  disgrace,  and 
then  by  a  daughter's  death.  Mr.  Cameron  was  truly  but  the 
wreck  of  his  former  self. 

Woman,  born  to  endure,  can  long  drag  the  weary  burden  of  a 
wounded  heart;  but  when  ouce  the  strong,  self-reliant  man  is 
broken  in  spirit,  he  sinks  at  once  beneath  the  load. 

As  time  passed  on,  Julia  watched  and  hoped  in  vain  to  see  her 
father  regain  his  cheerfulness.  She  devoted  herself  to  him,  and 
used  every  artifice  to  divert  his  thoughts  from  home,  and  in  this 
she  was  warmly  seconded  by  the  kind  friends  whose  guest  he  was. 
He  saw  and  appreciated  their  constant  effort  to  promote  his  com- 
fort. He  knew  that  his  pleasure  was  always  considered,  and  that 
they  studied  to  make  him  feel  at  home.  He  was  very  grateful; 
but  the  old  man  could  not  forget  the  Hall,  could  not  forget  that 
he  was  an  exile.  He  tried  hard  to  keep  it  all  to  himself  He 
would  not  cloud  the  happiness  of  others,  nor  would  he  be  so  un- 
grateful as  to  show  that  all  the  efforts  of  his  warm-hearted  friends 
to  make  him  comfortable  and  happy  were  in  vain.  He  tried  to  be 
cheerful  and  even  gay,  and  strangers  thought  that  his  was  a  won- 
derfully buoyant  heart ;  but  Uncle  John  and  Julia,  who  knew 
him  better,  saw  with  a  pang  the  effort  that  he  made,  for  they 
knew  well  the  home-sick  longing  that  was  hidden  beneath  that 
cheerful  exterior.  The  exile  was  weary  of  his  banishment;  the 
wanderer  longed  to  go  home.  Day  by  day  he  grew  perceptibly 
older,  and  weeks  seemed  to  do  for  him  the  work  of  years.  His 
hair  rapidly  silvered,  his  strength  was  soon  all  gone,  his  eye  lost 
its  brightness,  and  Mr.  Cameron  had  become  an  infirm  old  man. 

Uncle  John  and  Julia  watched  him  anxiously,  but  in  silence. 
Neither  spoke  the  fears  which  tortured  both ;  but  they  often 
thought,  with  sad  foreboding,  of  those  words  of  his  own,  which 
now  seemed  about  to  become  prophetic :  "  the  old  heart  will  not 
bear  transplanting." 

It  was  a  sweet  day  in  May,  and  Mr.  Cameron  was  lying  upon 
the  sofa  beside  an  open  window.  He  was  looking  out  upon  a 
beautiful  Southern  landscape,  but  it  was  not  a  home-picture,  and 

46 


538  CAMERON    HALL. 

he  sighed  deeply  as  he  remembered  the  mountains  that  encircled 
Hopedale,  the  bright-green  fields  around  the  Hall,  the  grove, 
and  the  little  brook,  whose  glad,  cheerful  voice  had  seemed  to  him 
alike  in  childhood,  manhood,  and  old  age,  the  very  sweetest  and 
most  musical  ripple  that  waters  ever  had. 

Julia  sat  by  her  father  in  silence.  She  was  never  away  from  him 
now ;  but  she  did  not  talk  much  to  him.  She  generally  watched 
his  pale  and  wasted  and  care-worn  features,  and  a  heavy  weight 
seemed  crushing  the  very  life  out  of  her  heart. 

Presently  he  turned  his  eyes  languidly  away  from  the  land- 
scape, and  fixed  them  upon  Julia. 

"  Come  here,  my  daughter,"  he  said.     "  Come  close  to  me." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  fast,  and  looking  at  her  with  a 
moistened  eye,  said,  in  a  tone  of  plaintive  sorrow  that  smote  her 
to  her  very  heart : 

"I  cannot  bear  it,  my  child,  and  I  knew  in  the  beginning  that 
I  could  not.  Friends  are  kind  and  I  am  grateful,  but  I  want  to 
go  home,  daughter, — I  want  to  go  home  !" 

The  last  thought,  the  last  word  of  the  broken-hearted  exile 
was  "home."  He  was  right:  he  could  not  bear  transplant- 
ing! 

His  heart  had  yearned  for  home,  but  he  found  his  last  home 
among  strangers.  Stranger-hands  laid  him  away  to  rest,  and 
stranger-hearts  mourned  for  him,  and  strangers  laid  the  flowers 
that  he  loved  upon  his  grave. 


CHAPTER  XXXY. 

About  three  weeks  after  her  father's  death,  Julia  read  in  the 
newspapers  the  announcement  of  the  evacuation  of  Hopedale  by 
the  Federal  troops,  who  were  all  being  concentrated  in  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac,  for  General  Grant's  campaign  against 
Richmond. 

She  laid  the  paper  down  with  a  sigh,  and  murmured  : 
"  Too  late — too  late  for  him  !  but  I  must  go  home  !" 
She  pointed  out  the  paragraph  to  Uncle  John,  and  said : 
"  When  may  I  go.  Uncle  John  ?" 

"My  child,"  he  answered,  "i  would  not  advise  you  to  go  at 
all.     The  evacuation  may  only  be  temporary,  for  Hopedale  is 


CAMERON    HALL.  539 

Still  within  Federal  lines,  and  may  at  any  moment  be  occupied 

again." 

He  paused  a  moment,  thought  of  the  probable  ruin  and  deso- 
lation of  the  Hall,  and  taking  her  hand,  his  voice  trembled,  as 

he  added  : 

"  Daughter,  the  old  Hall  is  changed  now.    It  will  not  look  like 

home.     I  would  not  go." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly,  as  she  replied  : 

"I  must  go,  Uncle  John.     I  want  to  go  home." 

He  looked  at  the  quivering  lip,  the  sunken  eye,  the  pale  cheek; 
he  thought  of  the  burden  of  sorrow  that  had  been  laid  upon  that 
young  heart,  which  three  years  before  had  known  grief  and 
trouble  only  by  name ;  he  thought,  too,  of  the  exile  on  whose 
now  sealed  lips  he  had  so  often  heard  the  same  words:  "  I  want 
to  go  home;"  and  it  was  not  in  Uncle  John's  heart  to  refuse  her. 
So  he  answered  : 

"You  shall  go,  my  daughter." 

It  was  a  bright  May  morning,  when,  after  a  weary  journey 
over  the  well-remembered  road,  the  party  came  in  sight  of  Cam- 
eron Hall.  The  country  through  which  they  had  passed  on  the 
preceding  day  had  somewhat  prepared  Grace  and  Julia  for  the 
scene  of  desolation  which  awaited  them  at  home.  Ruined  home- 
steads, ravaged  plantations,  fenceless  fields,  and  blackened  walls 
bore  mournful  witness  to  the  desolating  march  of  a  relentless 
and  merciless  foe;  and  when  a  turn  in  the  road  revealed  the 
Hall,  still  standing,  with  a  sigh  of  relief  Uncle  John  ex- 
claimed : 

''  Thank  God  !  the  old  house  is  still  left !" 

The  sun  was  shining  as  brightly  and  the  birds  were  singing 
as  merrily  as  they  used  to  do,  in  the  days  of  happiness  and  pros- 
perity at  the  Hall;  but  all  else  was  changed,  sadly  changed. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken  as  they  drove  through  the  grove ;  and  as 
soon  as  they  had  crossed  the  brook,  Julia  got  out  of  the  carriage 
and  walked  alone  along  the  familiar  path.  She  was  too  much 
oppressed  for  tears,  and  her  heart  ached  with  a  new  pang  at 
almost  every  step,  for  every  feature  of  the  scene  was  painfully 
identified  with  her  father,  and  Walter,  and  Eva,  and  with  memo- 
ries of  her  childhood's  happiness.  When  she  reached  the  walnut- 
tree,  she  turned  aside  from  the  path,  and  a  few  steps  brought  her 
to  the  little  family  burying- ground,  in  a  quiet  spot,  under  the 
shade  of  a  group  of  oaks.  The  iron  railing  that  had  once  sur- 
rounded it  was  lying  in  fragments  upon  the  ground,  the  monu- 
ments were  broken  and  defaced,  and  the  soft,  green  sward,  that 
had  once  covered  the  graves,  had  only  invited  the  desecrating 
tread  of  cattle.     She  turned  away  heart-sick,  but  as  she  was 


r 


540  CAMERON    HALL. 

about  to  leave  the  spot  her  eye  was  attracted  by  a  mound  that 
she  knew  was  not  there  when  she  left  home.  It  was  just  at  the 
foot  of  Agnes's  grave,  was  covered  with  nettles  and  brambles, 
and  a  rough  head-board,  with  the  sim])le  word  "Joe"  rudely 
carved  upon  it,  was  the  only  memorial  of  that  aimless,  hopeless, 
joyless  existence,  which  had  always  seemed  much  more  like  death 
than  life.  One  single  flower  smiled  upon  its  dreary  desolation, 
and  that  had  wandered  from  a  running  vine  that  grew  upon 
Agnes's  grave,  a  frail  memorial  of  the  tie  that,  in  life,  had  bound 
together  those  two  quiet  sleepers. 

When  she  reached  the  lawn,  Julia  found  the  fence  gone,  the  splen- 
did old  trees  felled,  and  the  smooth  velvet  turf  plowed  by  deep  un- 
sightly ruts.  The  graveled  carriage-way  was  overgrown  with  grass, 
and  the  flower-borders  on  each  side  were  a  tangled  mass  of  wild 
luxuriant  weeds.  No  careful  hand  had  pruned  Eva's  rose-bushes, 
and  their  long  ungraceful  branches  extended  far  over  the  walk. 
Julia  paused  at  the  now  empty  pit.  The  sash,  shattered  and 
broken,  was  hanging  upon  one  hinge,  fragments  of  jars  and  boxes 
were  scattered  about,  and  dead  stalks  of  heliotropes,  azaleas,  and 
camellias  were  lying  around.  One  jar  alone  remained,  and  the 
wreck  of  a  magnificent  geranium,  which  had  once  been  Eva's 
pride,  as  it  now  stood  there,  with  its  crisp,  dead  leaves,  the  soli- 
tary remnant  of  the  luxuriant  vegetation  by  which  it  had  once 
been  surrounded,  seemed  a  fitting  emblem  of  the  daughter  and 
sister  returning  alone  to  the  wreck  of  her  once  happy  home. 
Whichever  way  she  turned,  all  was  silent  and  mournful  desola- 
tion. Is"ot  even  the  familiar  faces  and  voices  of  the  servants  had 
come  to  welcome  her;  and  oppressed  as  with  a  mighty  weight, 
she  felt  as  she  might  have  done  if,  after  a  long  absence,  she  had 
rushed  to  clasp  to  her  heart  her  living  father,  and  had  suddenly 
found  herself  instead  clinging  to  his  cold  and  lifeless  corpse. 
Yes,  it  was  indeed  but  the  corpse  of  her  old  home  I 

But  if  the  scene  without  was  sad,  it  was  even  more  distressing 
when  she  went  into  the  house.  Carpetless  floors  stained  and 
marred;  broken  furniture;  walls  covered  with  obscene  and  blas- 
phemous language;  shattered  windows,  from  which  the  once  hand- 
some curtains  hung  in  shreds, — all  combined  to  form  a  chaos  of 
hopeless  ruin.  Julia  wandered  about  like  one  in  a  dream.  Even 
while  she  looked  upon  the  same  scene  repeated  in  every  room, 
she  could  not  realize  it.  Her  wildest  imaginings  had  never  pic- 
tured anything  like  this ;  and,  stupefied  with  amazement  and  sorrow, 
she  passed  from  room  to  room  with  no  settled  purpose  except  to 
avoid  the  library.  All  the  other  rooms  in  the  house  had  separate 
and  distinct  associations.  In  one,  her  father's  image  came  up 
clear  and  distinct  before  her;  in  another,  she  saw  Eva;  and  in 


CAMERON    HALL.  541 

another,  Willie :  but  the  library  was,  as  it  were,  the  liome  of  her 
home,  the  spot  where  all  her  pleasantest  and  most  sacred  memo- 
ries were  concentrated.  There,  father  and  children  had  been 
most  together;  there,  she  specially  remembered  Eva  and  Willie. 
It  was  the  family  shrine.  No,  she  could  not  yet  go  into  the 
library,  she  could  not  yet  bear  to  see  upon  that  sacred  spot  the 
traces  of  the  spoiler's  hand.  Tw^o  or  three  times  she  had  gone  to 
the  door,  but  had  as  often  turned  away  with  a  sickening  dread, 
and  murmuring  "  not  yet,"  had  passed  to  other  parts  of  the  house 
as  if  trying  to  accustom  herself  elsewhere,  to  the  sight  that  she 
knew  awaited  her  there.  At  last,  without  giving  herself  time 
to  shrink  back,  she  rushed  across  the  threshold  and  stood  in  the 
room. 

A  uniformed  soldier  was  there  alone,  with  his  back  to  the  door, 
his  folded  arms,  his  bowed  head,  his  whole  attitude  expressive  of 
the  deepest  sorrow.  Julia  slopped  in  surprise,  looked  at  him 
doubtfully,  and  then  advancing  a  few  steps,  was  in  an  instant 
locked  in  Walter's  arms.  And  there  they  stood,  the  brother  and 
sister,  the  last  of  the  family,  looking  in  heart-broken  silence  upon 
the  desolation  of  their  home,  fit  emblem  of  the  desolation  of  their 
hearts.  Here  indeed,  as  Julia  had  feared,  ruin  reigned  supreme. 
Willie's  sofa  was  broken  and  defaced,  and  Eva's  little  chair,  that 
used  always  to  sit  beside  it,  was  gone.  Books  were  scattered 
everywhere :  some  upon  tables  and  chairs,  and  some  upon  the 
floor ;  while  stray  leaves  were  lying  about,  and  some  with  half- 
burned  edges  were  upon  the  hearth.  Mr.  Cameron's  writing- 
desk  was  a  total  wreck,  and  fragments  of  it  were  in  different 
parts  of  the  room.  Julia  reverently  gathered  them  up,  and  felt, 
while  she  was  doing  so,  that  same  crushing,  leaden  weight  which 
was  upon  her  heart  when  she  stood  beside  her  dead  father. 
There  was  nothing  in  all  the  house  so  peculiarly  his  own  and  so 
identified  with  him.  Julia  knew  that  he  regarded  it  with  an 
affection  which  partook  of  veneration.  It  had  been  his  father's, 
and  after  having  been,  as  it  were,  the  depository  of  his  inmost 
feehngs  and  most  sacred  treasures,  it  had  descended  to  himself, 
to  be,  through  his  life,  the  same  trusted  friend.  Upon  that  old 
desk  his  father  had  poured  out  to  the  woman  ot  his  choice  those 
vows  of  love  and  protection  which  had  won  her  young  heart;  and 
afterward  their  son  had,  upon  the  same  old  desk,  recorded  his  de- 
votion to  the  woman  who  had  promised  to  be  his  wife.  To  its 
keeping,  Julia  knew  that  her  father  had  always  intrusted  her 
mother's  letters,  both  before  and  after  their  marriage,  and  never, 
until  his  exile,  had  they  been  withdrawn  from  its  care.  While 
she  was  engaged  in  her  sad  work,  all  at  once  Mammy  Xancy 
burst  into  the  room,  and  folding  the  brother  and  sister  in  her 


542  CAMERON     HALL. 

wide-spread  arms,  exclaimed,  laughing  and  crying  at  the  same 
time  : 

"  God  bless  my  children  !  God  bless  my  children  V\ 

It  was  the  first  thing  that  Julia  had  seen  that  looked  like 
home,  the  first  sound  she  had  heard  to  welcome  her;  and  the 
tears  which  before  had  seemed  frozen  upon  her  heart,  now 
melted  at  once,  and  leaning  her  head  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
faithful  old  nurse,  she  sobbed  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

As  soon  as  Grace  entered  the  house  she  quietly  escaped  up 
stairs,  and  in  a  few  minutes  stood  before  Agnes-'s  organ.  It  was 
the  only  thing  in  the  house  upon  which  no  irreverent  touch 
seemed  to  have  been  laid,  and  the  mother  looked  at  it  in  silent 
gratitude  that  the  blind  child's  treasure  had  been  respected 
where  all  else  had  been  despoiled.  The  old  feeling  was  still  in 
her  heart,  and  to  her  eye  Agnes  was  now  sitting  there  as  of  old, 
and  she  saw  the  little  blind  face,  first  so  full  of  the  earnest 
thoughts  and  feelings  struggling  to  find  expression,  and  then 
radiant  with  the  pleasure  of  having  found  for  them  their  sweet 
musical  utterance. 

Grace  thought  that  she  was  alone ;  and  Uncle  John  stood  be- 
hind her  several  minutes  before  he  could  consent  to  interrupt  her 
pleasing  reverie. 

She  was  startled  when  he  said  : 

''You  have  come  here,  Grace,  to  be  with  Agnes." 

"Yes,  Uncle  John,"  she  answered.  "I  am  always  with  her 
while  I  am  here." 

She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts  that  she  did  not 
look  at  Uncle  John,  nor  did  she  remark  a  strange  agitation  in 
his  voice  and  manner. 

Presently  he  said,  in  a  determined,  resolute  tone  : 

"  I  cannot  live  longer  without  you,  Grace.  To  the  child-angel 
of  my  youth  I  owe  all  that  is  worth  having  in  my  character;  to 
the  wife  of  my  old  age  let  me  owe  all  the  afi'ection  that  makes 
that  age  tolerable.  Oh,  Grace  !"  he  continued,  in  an  excited  and 
hurried  tone,  "  by  the  love  that  Agnes  had  for  me,  listen  to  me 
now.  Let  me  transfer  to  you  the  promise  of  love  and  protection 
that  I  made  to  her,  long  years  ago,  and  upon  which  her  childish 
heart  rested  with  unwavering  confidence  until  she  died ;  and  if 
you  cannot,  with  your  so  much  younger  heart,  love  the  old  one 
which  is  still  young  in  its  love  for  you,  yet  for  Agnes's  sake  let 
me  love  and  take  care  of  you.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  love  me 
now;  my  devotion  to  you  shall  teach  you  to  do  it." 

"I  need  no  teaching,  Uncle  John,"  she  faltered;  "I  have 
already  learned  it." 


CAMERON    HALL.  543 

Uncle  John  was  happy.  He  whose  early  life  had  been  blighted, 
and  the  ruin  of  whose  youthful  hopes  and  affections  had  been  as 
complete  as  the  desolation  now  around  him,  stood  in  the  midst 
of  that -chaos,  serene  and  happy.  The  sunshine  which  generally 
comes  to  the  young  had  been  reserved  for  him  until  now,  and  it 
was  all  the  brighter,  and  warmer,  and  more  cheering,  because  it 
came  not  altogether  from  without,  but  was  partly  the  emanation 
of  his  own  kind,  and  affectionate,  and  unselfish  heart.  And 
Grace  was  happy  too,  quietly  happy  in  the  secure  possession  of 
a  strong  deep  love,  which  her  trusting  dependent  nature  had 
always  needed  but  never  had  ;  and  not  unfit  was  it  that  she,  who 
in  the  unconsciousness  of  childhood  had  recalled  him  from  the 
moodiness  of  a  morbid  despair,  should  find,  long  years  afterward, 
in  his  love,  a  blessed  rest  for  a  worn  and  weary  heart. 


THE    END. 


«k 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
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